THIS week, two stories have stayed with me: those of David Ellam and Dexter Neal. A 52-year-old and a three-year-old, both lost their lives after being mauled by dogs. Mr Ellam was attacked while walking his Yorkshire Terrier, and Dexter while playing.

Man and dog have been friends for millennia – so when incidents like this occur, we find ourselves in shock. All dogs have the potential to bite, though most don’t, so we humanise them, affording us the continued reassurance of a safe and equal partnership. We give them names. We share our lives with them. We expect them to meet our needs and obey our rules, often with disproportionate disadvantage to the dog’s point of view.

According to stats, dog attacks are on the up, rising by 76 per cent in England in 10 years. At least 7,000 people were taken to hospital between 2014 and 2015. In recent years, attacks have continued to shock. Fourteen-year-old Jane Anderson was killed by two bull mastiffs. In the same year,

79-year-old Clifford Clarke was “eaten alive” by a starving dog according to a judge, and six-day-old Eliza-Mae Mullane was pulled from her pram and savaged. The list of horrors goes on, each and every one born of the complexities of living with animals. Even though we’ve been doing it forever, we haven’t got it figured out yet.

In the aftermath of such stories, comes the predictable reaction.

The emotional stakes are high; we love children and we love dogs. The intensity of feeling towards both is reflected in people’s responses: “Something must be done”, “Blame the dog”, or “Blame the owner”. And then most forget about it. We come home to our happy, loving dogs, thankful for our good-natured pets, and return to business as usual. We continue to take the good behaviour for granted, and point the finger only when things turn.

When I was seven, I was attacked by two German Shepherd dogs.

Until recently, whenever I encountered these stories, they would ignite a fresh panic. They would loom in my consciousness for a considerable amount of time. I would turn the radio off, close the paper, and only read it again when

I felt I could be rational. Now, I listen acutely, aware of the human tragedy and the glaring lack of animal tragedy in the reporting.

For such a long-celebrated symbiotic relationship, we do an awful lot of blame-deflecting. You only have to look at the wording of the Dangerous Dogs Act to see how clearly we stereotype dog breeds, and how we lead with the punitive rather than human-led welfare.

Every memory of that day is seared into my brain – from skipping breakfast to the garish lime and purple Spice Girls top and shorts combo I was wearing. It was the first day of the summer holidays, and my friend Tom and I were going on a bike ride – one we’d been planning for several days.

I’d cycled to his, picked him up, and we’d spent the majority of the morning trying to outdo one another – standing on the frame and cycling down Wordsworth Road with our hands behind our heads. We’d been laughing, shouting, ringing our bells and generally being an unusually rambunctious presence on the usually sleepy street. We’d passed my young neighbour, Becky. She was 14, slight, and being pulled along by her two large dogs. I remember thinking it was nice to see them out of the garden.

Her mother was ill and housebound, and I’d never seen either beyond the bounds of their wrought-iron gate. As Tom and I whizzed past, I called to the dogs as I stood on my pedals and waved enthusiastically.

Benji lunged. Lady followed.

I was pulled off my bike, into a neighbour’s driveway, Lady holding on to my left foot, while Benji had my right shin locked between his jaws. Mercifully, he opened his mouth for a moment. I kicked off my left trainer and ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction. I spotted a neighbour mowing his lawn and threw myself over his hedge, screaming for help, and ran straight in through his open front door.

I lay on the couch, picking gravel out of my elbows, watching crimson ink slip southward, staining my white ankle sock. There was a large hole in my leg, bitten down to the bone, though I was marvelling in some way at the complete lack of pain. I was going to die, I thought, and all I could think of was the noise. The bark that pierced the fun afternoon. The snarling. Two painful surgeries later, the scars healed far quicker than the mind. That noise would still wake me from sleep decades later.

Whenever I recount this story, people assume they know where I stand on the dangerous dogs debate. That I’ll join the voices clamouring for swift and decisive action. But whatever fresh tragedy occurs, I cannot blame the animal. I spent much of life terrified of dogs and avoiding them at all cost.

It took almost two decades for me to sideline my pain and think compassionately about those dogs.

It took counselling and many years of exposure therapy for me to even be on the same street as a dog, and even longer to come round to the animals’ point of view. They were dogs whose welfare had suffered, who were under-exercised and poorly socialised, and who’d reacted to a stimulus. Now, I have my own – and it’s a relationship I don’t take lightly. I’m all too aware of the potential in his jaw, and how much he needs from me to feel safe, secure and in an environment of stability. There is a constant effort required to maintain the partnership. In each of these incidents, how often have the dogs felt safe, comfortable and reassured?

Dangerous dogs are a problem – at least on paper, the statistics speak for themselves – but the issue cannot be pinned solely on the animal. Of course society must be afforded protection – but the current legislation falls far short of being effective when the role of the owner is so absent from the conversation.

Breed discrimination is not the answer. Instead of basing our action on how dogs look, we must stop taking our partnership for granted. All dogs have the potential to behave badly, and all dogs have the potential to be loving companions. We must always be aware of both, even in the face of tragedy.