It’s National Random Acts of Kindness Day.

Which reminded me of the time I very nearly ruined my life over a Jack Russell.

I was meant to be at school.

Instead, me and a couple of my friends decided we’d head to the next town and hang about in the park. As you do when you’re fourteen and thick.

On the way, a car ran over this tiny little Jack Russell.

Now most people would think, “Right, careful now.”

Not me.

I went charging in like a dramatic extra from Casualty.

My only thought was, “I’ll grab him and make sure he’s ok.”

His only thought was, “Absolutely not, you lunatic.”

He turned and bit me straight on the hand.

And I reacted like I’d been taken out by a sniper.

Fell backwards into the middle of the road. Full dramatic collapse. Rolling about. Swearing at a dog I had just tried to rescue.

It was less hero and more village idiot.

A couple stopped the car and came running over.

The woman looked at me on the ground and said, “Will you cop yourself on.”

Not unkind. Just factual.

Which, if you’re not Irish, means: stop the theatrics immediately.

They pulled me up, and drove me to the doctor.

Now here’s the real trauma.

In Ireland, you pay to see the doctor.

Twenty pounds it was.

Twenty!

At fourteen, that might as well have been a mortgage.

Then the doctor says I need an injection.

An injection!

All I could think was, “Well that's it, I'm screwed". That’s at least another twenty. I’m finished.  I was terrified the bill would go home and my  parents would discover I didn't go to double maths.

I wasn’t worried about the bite.

I was worried about the invoice.

The doctors were lovely. Didn’t ask too many questions. Patched me up. Gave me the jab.

And somehow, to this day, I don’t know how, my parents never found out.

That couple didn’t have to stop.

The doctor didn’t have to be sound about it.

No one had to quietly let the whole thing slide.

But they did.

That’s the kind of kindness that sticks.

People stepping in when a dramatic Irish teenager makes poor decisions before lunchtime.

Looking back, it’s actually not that surprising I now work with dogs.

The instinct to help was always there.

What I've learned since is this: A frightened dog doesn't need a hero. They need calm.  The need space. They need someone who can think clearly when they can't.

I’ve learned to approach Jack Russells a little more sensibly.

And to stay out of the middle of the road.