Nan-next-door scars me for life I

Nan-next-door decides to get a dog (my Nans were neighbours for most of my childhood).  She is quite a large lady, decides a tiny handbagged-sized mutt would be the best look and  buys a Papillon - a butterfly dog - called Andy Pandy.  Andy is small, weedy with a skull that looks like you could crush it between two fingers like a walnut; but  Nan-next-door adores him, showers him with love, grooms him daily and buys him an attractive range of accessories (the sort of thing Joan Collins might wear if she was a dog).  Recognising he is now the supreme being within the family  Andy wears a permanent self-satisfied dog-grin, yaps incessantly and seems to be taking an awful lot of attention away from me (just for the record I am about 6). 

Nan is sensitive to the fact that I don't like Andy; in fact I hate him above all living creatures (yes - even more than Cousin Julie).  Nan-next-door decides that we should bond and encourages me to stroke him, dress him up in dolls clothes and wheel him around in my dolls pram; he is resistant to the last but I find if you wrap him tightly enough there isn't much he can do (think mummified cat).  Then feeling she has brought about a rapprochement between us ,she says 'Give Andy a kiss' - I lean towards his nasty Golum-like face and puckered up with my eyes closed only to feel excruciating pain as his razor-sharp teeth sink into my nose.

So obviously the antipathy was mutual.  From then on I kept well away from  the canine piranha; but his memory lingers on in the faint scar that appears on my nose when I have a suntan.