TOM PARKER BOWLES: How I fought to save my Jack Russell Maud from the jaws of a 10st mastiff who savaged her in London street

It was the most glorious of mid-November London mornings – the sort of day so splendidly crisp you could snap it in half and slather it with butter.

After a few hours spent toiling at my desk, it was time for lunch, a proper lunch, at a restaurant in Bayswater, west London, with my old friend Nick.

Maud, my two-year-old Jack Russell terrier, was beside herself with glee. Like most dogs, she tends to dance a jig when her collar and lead are put on, and when we turn left towards Holland Park (rather than right for her shorter, pre-bedtime jaunt), she gets more excited still.

So off we went – the sky a luscious azure, the early winter sun gleaming above us, with barely a worry in the world, Maud tugging at her collar, her little tail wagging so furiously that it was little more than an off-white blur.

As we came down on to Kensington High Street, on a route we could both walk with blindfolds, I had that rare feeling that all was well in the world. Work done, dog happy and the prospect of good lunch with a good friend just a walk across Hyde Park.

Then it happened. A few metres ahead of us, about halfway down Kensington High Street, I saw two relatively short people with two vast dogs, straining at their metal link leads.

Maud spotted them first and strained on her lead to move as far away as she could from them, ears pinned low to the back of her head. She neither barked nor provoked them, just wanted to get the hell out of the way. Good thinking.

I also felt they needed a few metres’ space, so moved right out to the side of the pavement, well beyond the reach of their lead, to pass and avoid them.

Then all hell broke loose. The dog on the right-hand side (and I’m pretty certain it was a Cane Corso, a large Italian breed of mastiff), spotted Maud and was over in a second, teeth bared, eyes fixated on his minuscule prey.

The dog’s walker was no match for the 10st of brute muscle and he was pulled off his feet in a second, dragged behind the beast, then under it, like a cowboy thrown from his horse. I tried to block the dog and pick up Maud, but the aggressor was simply too fast.

That moment will never leave me, replaying again and again in my head like some ghastly Instagram reel. Within moments, the mastiff had his jaws locked deep into my tiny, less-than-one-stone terrier, who was shrieking with terror. Then came the most heartrending cry of pain.

At this point, my memory goes rather hazy.

All that mattered was getting this brute off my dog, and pure instinct took over.

Trust me, I’m no hero and usually run a mile from any sort of altercation, be it human or canine. But I knew Maud would be finished if the attacker could lift its head to shake her like a rag, or crush her like a furry Twiglet.

I launched myself on to the dog, desperately trying to undo his jaws, which were locked, vice-like, on her soft white belly.

It’s the small things I remember: the mist on the glasses of its walker, and his look of absolute terror, trapped beneath his dog; the sweet, mildly fetid smell of the attacking dog’s breath on my face; the stickiness of its saliva, as I tried desperately, like a pot-bellied Tarzan, to wrench open those jaws; the pure brute power of the beast and the shininess of his coat.

Crowds gathered around me in horror as I grappled on the ground. Bizarrely, the podcast I’d been listening to continued to play in my ear, even as one headphone flew across the road.

I especially remember a kind old gentleman who whacked the dog with his walking stick as we scrabbled on the ground.

It felt like the assault lasted for hours. In truth, it was probably no longer than 30 seconds.

I think, in the end, I must have kicked the wretched beast in the balls and it loosened its grip for one moment.

Maud was free and in my arms. She was also a mess of blood and flesh and fur, a great gaping wound slashed across her right-hand side, with deep, sinister puncture marks where the incisors had penetrated her skin.

I usually faint at the mere sight of blood but, somehow, something deep down kicked in, and I managed to keep it together. God only knows how.

Then it was about survival, her survival. I didn’t have time to get details of that dog walker or witness statements, or anything else. Maud just looked up at me with those dark brown eyes, brown as Galaxy chocolate, shaking in silent shock.

At that point, dazed and desperate, I knew she had to get to the vet. A lovely lady, who had witnessed the whole thing, whistled like a navvy to call a cab. Then I was in, and en route to my vet, the brilliant Village Vet in Brook Green, willing the cab on, cursing the lights, praying to every god I could think of.

Nothing else mattered, my entire world concentrated into this small Jack Russell, shivering and bleeding in my arms.

Within minutes we were there, and into the arms of Kerriann, that nurse who knew Maud well. And Joanna, the vet who cleaned her wounds and filled her with antibiotics and opiates.

They were a nurse down, so couldn’t operate there, so back we climbed into a cab, Maud far more stoic than me. Now we hared to Village Vet Chiswick, and another hero, Ourania, the head vet, who whisked her into surgery.

‘Shall I come with her?’ I asked. ‘Absolutely not,’ she replied firmly. ‘We’ll let you know when we know.’

And that was that. I walked out into the afternoon sunshine, my head full of terrible thoughts and images – of large thoracic wounds, secondary infections and skin sloughing.

At that point, the calm facade dissolved and I broke down into great racking sobs on Chiswick High Road. I must have looked like a loony. The only thing for it was the pub.

Two double Laphroaig’s later and the tears still flowed like the River Dee.

It was a few more hours before the call came through – Maud had made it through the surgery, but was still very, very ill. I had to take her over to yet another practice, the Village Vet in Hampstead, which had a 24-hour emergency surgery.

Here she would spend the next two days, looked after by yet another heroine, Dr Natalie. She was stable. They thought she would make it.

For the first time in nine hours, I could actually think about what had happened. God, I felt guilty. Why hadn’t I just picked Maud up, or crossed to the other side of the road, or even taken a taxi to the restaurant rather than walked? This was all my fault, the foolish owner putting his dog in danger.

Now I know that I should have picked the Corso up by its hind legs or, worse still, inserted a finger where the sun don’t shine. Apparently, this makes dogs lose their grip in a moment.

But hindsight is a wonderful thing, and I had no time to think rationally.

And what about Maud’s attacker? I’m a firm believer that there’s no such thing as a bad dog, rather a bad owner. I get the feeling the two walkers were not the owners but rather the employees of someone residing in one of the vast houses behind Kensington High Street. Which is why I’m loathe to blame them.

I did ring the police, to let them know what happened, so that something similar might be prevented from happening again. The police were polite, and helpful, but without the walker (or owner’s details) were not able to do much.

I don’t want the dog who attacked Maud put down, nor do I want to press charges. Emergency vet care is not cheap, but I’m lucky that Maud is covered by Petplan – which, so far, has been incredibly efficient. It’s not every day one says that about an insurance company.

What I do want, though, is these big, powerful and often beautiful dogs to be muzzled when out in public. Is that too much to ask?

I’m certainly not a fan of knee-jerk legislation, of banning certain breeds, or having them destroyed. I’d much rather put the responsibility on the owner. If you cannot control your dogs, or train, walk and look after them properly, then you have no right to own a dog. It’s as simple as that.

There are another pair of Cane Corsos I sometimes see in Hyde Park who are not only muzzled, but beautifully behaved, too (at least I presume these are a different pair altogether and not the same ones walked by someone who knows how to better handle them). A friend sent me a picture of her tiny dog nose-to-nose with them. And they were no threat at all.

And yet these are dogs bred to protect cattle from circling wolves. They are brilliant, evolved killers and completely out of their natural habitat on a Central London high street.

I saw what they can do to a small dog. God only knows what they could do to a small child.

Maud is now on the mend, I hope, though not totally out of the woods yet.

There is a very real prospect of further surgery, and a long and painful road to recovery for this sweetest, sharpest and most adoring of terriers. Not to mention the psychological scars she’ll bear.

What this whole horrible episode did show me, though, is the absolute kindness of strangers. Not just all those people who tried to help, but the thousands of lovely messages I received when I posted on Instagram about the attack, which I did only to highlight the importance of responsible dog ownership.

London is a lot more caring than we might imagine.

As Maud now sits at my feet, bandaged like a mummy and still a little woozy from all those drugs, I thank the Lord for the quality of British vets.

And while I’ll forever berate myself for what happened to my beautiful dog, I can (sort of) console myself with the following thought – if just one potentially dangerous dog is muzzled because of Maud’s horrific attack, she won’t have suffered in vain.