My poor Valerie just hasn't been the same since a white van man's husky bit her ear

I made the decision some decades ago to live a lightweight life. I would see if it was possible to earn a living from talking about gay sex and being rude about people's hair.

In seclusion with a small mongrel dog, I would spend my time picking bluebells in the woods, live in the present and be kind to old people and animals. I’d be vaguely left-wing but would not concern myself with the type of heady world politics and social injustices that others lay awake at night worrying about.

So far it has worked out rather well. I breeze through life blissfully ignorant of all the unsavoury things you can't do much about anyway. If I see an unsettling newspaper headline I buy Pick Me Up instead and read about "sex with my size zero lover".

So I'm afraid, in my world, if this global warming business means my builders have to take their shirts off even early in the morning in mid-April, then it's something we will all just have to live with. I employ a number of roofers, painters and the like purely as decoration. Sort of homoerotic garden gnomes. They might replace the odd tile or slosh some whitewash against the barn if they're going for realism, but it's not essential. They are there just in case I should happen to glance out of the window and require something to gladden the eye.

Beyond the camellias, I like to glimpse a little brawn. I have a Virginia creeper shooting up my kitchen garden wall and I have similar hopes for a frisky young hod-carrier called Brett.

My camp gay friends have got wind of the entertainment to be had round at my place and have been visiting by the busload. There are positive cat fights over who should mince outside with a tray of tea and ask, "Who could manage a chocolate finger?" We were all steaming with jealousy when Hector had the brainwave to offer the boys an application of sun protection cream. "I'm just going to have a squirt across your back, all right? We don't want you going home red raw . . . Or do we? Ha, ha!" The poor workman looked nervously at his chums and said, "No, I'm all right, thanks, mate."

But something terrible was about to happen. We were all so busy carrying on like schoolgirls that no one noticed the huge, wolf-like husky that crept unnoticed from the men’s white van towards my delicate Valerie. With a snarl and a roar, he leapt on her, sinking his fangs into her neck.

"No, Ronnie!" shouted one of the builders and tried to grab his dog. For a few terrible seconds they rolled around the lawn, a gruesome Catherine wheel of flesh and fur. Eventually Valerie was released and ran howling into the house, trembling and foaming at the mouth with fear, a single tear of blood trembling on her ear.

As for Ronnie, the builder casually explained that he'd been named after his favourite Kray brother on account of having a similar disposition. There's been no sunscreen on offer since then, and precious little tea, either. The numbers of workmen have been culled to just those who look like Cristiano Ronaldo. The rest have been given their marching orders. I can be tough when need be.

Poor Valerie. She hasn't been the same since. She can swallow nothing more substantial than Rescue Remedy, and then only when I can lure her out from under the bed. Just a glimpse of a sweaty singlet seems to bring it all back. She has doggy nightmares, yelping and writhing in her sleep as she relives those traumatic events. The reality of the violent world I tried so hard to shelter myself and my companion from has come crashing in, courtesy of Ronnie.

I expect Valerie will slowly regain her love of life and we'll pick up the pieces of our serene rural existence. But the rules have changed slightly now. I shall continue to be kind to animals - all animals, except huskies. They must die. My happiness depends on it.

Julian Clary

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