I'm not a dog lover. Not a dog hater either but was traumatized enough not to like them. So, when Michelle, a high school classmate of mine, invited me to meet her pinscher, whom I previously thought was a new breed of hamster but turned out to be a dog, I was awashed with a wave of trepidation.

Relieved somewhat by her assurance that "it won't bite since it's smaller than a cat", I took along Nikki to meet Winnie the pinscher. Don't let the name fool you; that little fellow is no Winnie-the-Pooh. It's arguably sweet and doesn't try to sink its fangs into my legs like some dogs do, but while Winnie (the Pooh) stumbles its way around slowly, Winnie (the Pinscher) sprints round and round like it's on steroid. It's like some hyperactive kid who can't sit still. I certainly don't mind liking a dog like Winnie since it didn't remind me of that wonderful-turned-dreadful day seven years ago.

I was twelve then, happily cycling around the neighbourhood. It was probable that I was fed steroid for I was certainly acting under the influence. That explains why I was emboldened to venture into my neighbourhood's equivalent of the Forbidden Forest of Hogswarts. I swore I could feel staring eyes on my back but I failed to realize how quiet it was; the hmm-something-isn't-right kind. When I did, it was too late.

Loud barks killed the disquieting silence; a pack of dogs (4 to 5 of them and they could be wolves for all I know) came from no where. Fangs poised to take huge chunks of flesh, saliva dripping, they charged towards me at alarming stride. I did what any sane person would do under said circumstance; I pedaled with all my might. I screamed with equal zest when I realized I was heading towards a dead end.

I know the cornered protagonist premise sounds hackneyed but I'm not one who indulges in clichés. I kid you not; I really was backed into a corner, literally. What more could I do but to resign to fate that I was to nourish those poor hungry sons of bitches (expletive not intended)? Needless to say, I wasn't eaten alive but I was scarred for life.

Not physically though. Every dog has its day; was I glad it wasn't their day! Here comes the anticlimax: An elderly man, wielding a wooden stick, drove those dogs away just right before one of them dined on my ribs. I used to like dogs, but understandably not so since that day. Though it wasn’t my first near death experience (the first is another story for another day), I was deeply affected. Traumatised at that impressionable age, you can't blame me for not trusting man's best friends anymore. I need a heart-to-heart; is there any savage animal attack survivors group I could join?