Quite the best definition of the impossible is a bilingual dog. Especially in Bulgaria.

No doubt you are either nodding or shaking your head.

And that’s the point.

To a clever mutt, this dog’s dinner of loaf jiggling or waggling for yes, or perhaps no, is a complete joy. The ultimate get-out-of-jail card.

Solution? In this country? Bribes, obviously.

Or so I thought.

Early one morning in December, I am out walking our wilful husky, Astro, when as luck would have it "Jaws" suddenly appears on the scene, strutting his stuff and sniffing Astro’s butt. Now this Alsatian, temperament-wise about as far removed from Lassy as possible, reckons he is king of the grass. Unfortunately, so does Astro. Sensing a dogfight, therefore, I violently shake my head at them both. But this is wrongly taken as a "yes, go for it lads". Result? The pre-match growling notches up a decibel or two. So, next, I hastily proffer tasty morsels of biscuit baksheesh to keep the peace. (Well, Jaws does looks like a police dog.) All I get in return for these immediately gobbled up backhanders, though, is crazy barking swiftly followed by wild scuffling à la your average Sofia street protest, which concludes precisely 4.5 seconds later when Astro’s head becomes jammed between the ogre’s massive fangs.

Oh terrific, I shout, grabbing beefy tyrannosaurus jawbones in my fists and pulling them hard apart.

With a yelp, Astro is freed and bounds off across the grass, his good looks still intact.

Great.

Then I look down at my hand as Jaws eyeballs me with what can only be described as a smirk on his ugly mug.

Blood is gushing from a fountain between thumb and forefinger. The doggone beast has holed me.

So pdq, I am hospital bound.

"Do you want a rabies injection, Yuri?" says the doc a while later in the ER. (Yuri?!?)

"Here? Oh yeah sure, bring it on, Dumitir." I hash up his name on purpose to return the compliment and the idiocy of his suggestion.

The quack duly notes the high sarcasm.

"Well there’s another option, Yuri. Keep an eye on the dog that bit you. If it still lives in two weeks, you are all clear. If not, it’s curtains,"

Super. Possible death one way or another (needles and hospitals in Bulgaria do not mix well). What a humdinger of a choice! And it’s still only 9am.

Only one thing to do in this kind of situation in Bulgaria, folks. Toss a coin! I do so fast and tails it is, so the kind injection offer is binned once and for all.

Unsurprisingly, for the next few weeks I keep a sharp eye out for said Alsatian.

And guess what. Yes, bloody Jaws goes awol.

No need to mention, therefore, that it was a very fraught fortnight, highlighted by one particularly nightmarish episode in front of the bathroom mirror involving toothpaste and a bad hangover.

Thankfully and obviously I am still breathing. But are even all the dogs in the country now biting the European hand that feeds them? Cripes!