The year 2000 was filled with excitement and anticipation about what the new millennium would bring. That summer, Robbie Williams’ “Rock DJ” was playing on every pub jukebox, the perfect soundtrack to a cold pint in the sun. Life was good, and I was busy working for a multi-trade insurance repair company.
Monday, August 21st, started off as just another workday. I arrived at the office and received my job sheet, which included the address, the customer’s name and contact details, and a surveyor’s report of the damage. The job was straightforward: remove a water-damaged section of the kitchen ceiling, replace it with new plasterboard, apply two coats of plaster, and blend it into the existing ceiling. A nice, steady job. Given my past experiences—like the time I accidentally destroyed a hotel room doing a similar repair (a story for another day)—I had learned my lessons and was confident in the job ahead.
The house was a mid-terrace property. As I approached the front door, I noticed a large, hairy German Shepherd dog going berserk at the window. When I knocked, I saw the homeowner securing the dog in the kitchen before opening the door.
“Good morning,” I said to her, introducing myself and explaining that I was there to fix the ceiling.
“Come in,” she said.
The house had only two downstairs rooms: the living room and the kitchen, separated by a reinforced glass door. Through the glass, I could see the dog still in a frenzy,
“I’ll just get the dog,” the lady assured me. “Once he sniffs you, he’s usually fine.”
Unfortunately, the dog had other ideas. The moment the glass door opened wide enough, the German Shepherd lunged at me.
Now, I’m a big guy—about sixteen stone, fit and strong—but I was no match for that beast. It knocked me to the floor and immediately went for my groin like it was a Sunday roast. The pain was indescribable. I fought it off, scrambled to my feet, and bolted out of the house straight into my van. Blood was soaking through my jeans as I raced to the hospital. By the time I arrived, I was in bad shape.
It resulted with a month off work, a police investigation, and a strong recommendation to contact a solicitor, as this was considered an assault.
We contacted a no-win, no-fee solicitor who believed we had a solid case. He first checked whether the homeowners had pet insurance, which would have made the claim straightforward. When that turned up empty, we explored other options. A back-and-forth of legal letters ensued, with the homeowners claiming I had entered uninvited and that the dog was simply defending its territory. Then they insisted they only had building insurance and no contents insurance, which could have covered the claim since, legally, their dog was considered “contents.”
However, a search by our solicitor revealed that they did, in fact, have contents insurance. When this evidence was presented, their own solicitors dropped them, as they were now deemed unreliable witnesses.
To strengthen my case, my solicitor arranged for me to see a private psychologist. After a few sessions, I was diagnosed with PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). The psychologist suggested a rather bizarre coping mechanism: I had to imagine that all dogs have fluffy pink heads and therefore posed no threat to me.
What the fuck? What fucking planet was he on?
Despite the absurdity of that advice, justice was eventually served. The insurance payout was substantial, and I walked away not just with compensation, but with a story I’d never forget.
And to this day, whenever I see a German Shepherd, I try my best to imagine it with a fluffy pink head.
Lath and Plaster 