I’ve already let you guys in on an irrational phobia of mine – my fear of being in a relationship with a short man. Slowly but surely, I’m peeling back the layers, letting you see a new part of me every time I blog, revealing my crazy word by word. My other phobia though, I will shout from the rooftops, without shame, without the slightest hesitation or faltering of my voice, without fear of who knows or who will judge me.
Aside from my heightism, I also have a fairly deep seated dislike of those four legged creatures someone mistakenly termed “man’s best friend”.
Lies you tell. Lies you tell. Those shaggy atrocities are no friends of mine. They aren’t even casual acquaintances. They aren’t even that work colleague who you don’t really like, but will grudgingly give two quid to his office birthday present. They aren’t even your boss, who you really, really don’t like. They are furry minions, sent from the seventh circle of hell to torment me as I try to live my simple life.
It all started when I was 8 years old. My dear old Dad is the type of man who seems to attract the type of people who tap dance on the outer rim of normality. Not necessarily a bad thing – in fact, it can be potentially very interesting. There was the elderly lady we met when we went on a family holiday to Bath who insisted on calling my Dad by his last name, and told him he should leave his wife come and live with her (after all she loved Jamaican men). My Mum wasn’t even faintly amused. I thought it was hilarious. There’s my next door neighbour who in his latest chat to Dad revealed that he intends to vote UKIP because black people are all lazy whatnots who should sod off to wherever they came from, but who kindly picks up our packages for us when we’re out.
Needless to say, I’m used to it. This time, in the middle of one of our holiday bike rides, Dad decided to take a break to chit chat with one of our local drunks. No worries on my part, seemed like a nice man. Except for the fact that he had a very menacing pit bull terrier, who was clearly out of control, and who he clearly was not about to try control, and who was clearly thirsting for my 8 year old blood. He (the dog) looked at me. I gulped. We said our cheerios and started to cycle away. And then the inevitable happened. This beast, who was apparently my “best friend” took off, snarling behind me, as my skinny 8 year old legs pedalled as fast as they could,as the friendly drunk slurred “Don’t worry love, he won’t urt’cha!!”, and as my Dad worriedly shouted at him to try and restrain his dog.
I’m here to tell the tale thankfully, and I escaped with all my limbs intact, but the trauma has been deep and long lasting and the fact still remains – dogs eat people. That is not the first time a dog has tried to eat my face.
On one of my home visits with the GP in my fourth year of medicine, another dog , who the owner claimed was “only a puppy” managed to escape from behind the gate where it had been locked away, and literally clawed at my face. 3 weeks ago, right here in Nepal, I was half chased by a potentially rabid dog while hiking through a rural village. Every time one of these creatures has attempted to attack me, I have simply being minding my own business. So don’t believe the propaganda by all these dog lovers around you – listen to the Daily Mail, they’re a veritable source of accurate information. Every year, they post a story about a poor toddler that has been consumed by an Alsatian. They know something most of you don’t. Simply, that dogs eat people. And that’s why my phobia is completely rational.
Anyone else scared of dogs?