‘Do you like animals?’ asked the woman at the door, collecting for a zoo. ‘No, I hate them, they keep trying to kill me,’ I said. That got rid of her. I feel a little ashamed of my hostility to animals, which I inherited from my mother. She was raised in rural Ireland and she loathed the countryside and all its non-speaking inhabitants. To her, animals were either predators or ingredients, and she particularly despised geese, rats, mice, squirrels and dogs. ‘Vermin,’ was one of her favourite nouns. And she regarded the word ‘pet’ as a self-deluding fantasy. Which seems reasonable. Animals cannot be tamed but their owners can be deceived. Any beast will turn murderous when cornered.
Dog-hate entered my soul. It festers there still. But people dislike people who dislike dogs so I keep it hidden
I have a survival tip if you need one. I was attacked by a dog at the age of 18 while passing through an Arab village in northern Israel. A snarling mongrel scampered out of a copse and barked violently at me. I walked on, suppressing my fear and hoping to project an air of invincible calm. It worked. The dog hung back and I kept walking, relieved that the danger had passed, but it raced up from behind and grabbed my ankle in its pincer jaws. Instinct took over. I froze. Its teeth tore at my flesh but I didn’t move or make a noise. This confused it. Perhaps it thought I’d turned into a tree or a fence-post. It realised that I wasn’t a meal so it relaxed its grip and lurked nearby, waiting.
