Opinion

Jake O'Kane: What happened when my adorable Border Terrier turned into a devil dog and bit back...

Tired of never winning the toy, the pup became exasperated and launched a punitive bite at my crotch. Being on the way to bed and in my pyjamas, let's say things weren't tucked away as securely as normal

Jake O'Kane

Jake O'Kane

Jake is a comic, columnist and contrarian.

He looks adorable now...
He looks adorable now...

OUR ability as a species to forget pain must be programmed into our DNA. There's no way a woman would go through childbirth more than once if she could accurately remember the experience.

On a much smaller scale, there's no way I'd have got a new puppy if I'd remembered accurately what that entailed.

Don't get me wrong, Border Terrier pups are adorable. God was having a good day when he created them, but I've also seen them described as the Devil's teddy bears.

First off, I'd forgot about house training. My reminder came when, going downstairs in bare feet one morning, I stepped in one of the pup's overnight deposits. How something so small could excrete something so malodorous is bewildering.

Then there's the teething; presently his mouth resembles more piranha than dog, with a mouthful of needle-thin incisors. He's taken a liking to my shoelaces which, ninja-like, he chews through in seconds. But all this is nothing compared to the trauma of the other night.

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It's impossible not to pick up the pup for a cuddle, with his big eyes and silky-soft hair.

I had him in my lap, playing with him before bed - or as my wife described, teasing him with a chew toy. I dangled the toy just above his head then whipped it away every time he tried to bite.

Each time he missed, the pup let out a hilariously high-pitched yelp of exasperation; even when he growled l couldn't help but laugh.

This was a mistake. Tired of never winning the toy, the pup became exasperated and launched a punitive bite at my crotch. Being on the way to bed and in my pyjamas, let's say things weren't tucked away as securely as normal. Suddenly, the pup's needle-thin teeth gripped onto a new chew toy - one attached to me.

It was now my turn to emit a high-pitched yelp as I leapt up with the pup swinging happily from my jammies. Afraid in case he bit down harder, I danced across the room in terror and agony, looking like a Scotsman doing a Highland dance wearing a living sporran.

I'd have bet good money that, in such a situation, my hands would immediately go around the pup's throat but, to my amazement, instead they flapped high above my head as my panicked arms abandoned ship and tried to fly as far from the horror as possible.

My wife was no help, having dissolved into a paroxysm of laughter; the only coherent thing I could hear from her was, "Don't hurt the puppy." Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I gripped the dangling pup with the caution of a bomb disposal expert and gently prised open his mouth before slumping to the floor.

...but Jake has learned the hard way that he should be careful of those sharp little teeth
...but Jake has learned the hard way that he should be careful of those sharp little teeth

I couldn't bring myself to look at the damage. My imagination spun with images of ambulance lights blazing as I was rushed to A&E and, from there, straight into surgery. The surgeon would look down, grimace, and ask the obvious question, "How did it happen?" Traumatised, I'd answer honestly, "My pup bit me."

Forget 'Freddie Starr Ate My Hamster' - the headlines in the Sunday papers would read 'Comic recovering in hospital after circumcision via pup'. How could I explain it? I'd be banned by the USPCA from ever owning a dog, of that I was certain.

Thankfully my pyjama bottoms - regularly mocked by my wife as making me look like a Dad's Army extra - are made of thick cotton and - blessings be to God - they absorbed most of the bite.

So, while I remain intact physically, I suspect I'll be dealing with post-traumatic dog disorder for some time.

The lesson has been learned; I now ensure I'm wearing jeans when playing with the devil pup. One positive is that, now knowing the pup's propensity to attack male genitalia, I can't wait for unsuspecting friends to visit so I can hand him over and watch the ensuing mayhem.

Another positive is that being 60 and Border Terriers living up to eighteen years, there's every probability this pup will outlive me. This will be my last dog, so I can rest easy knowing that when called, I'll go to the Lord intact.

And if St Peter decides the debit side of my book is too long and sends me down to The Other Place, you can be sure this damned soul will remind Old Nick he's owed because one of his pups almost neutered me.