- Kelly Allen, 46, was having drinks with friends when the unthinkable happened.
- The friendly sausage dog turned vicious and attacked Kelly.
- Surgeons took skin from Kelly’s neck and grafted it over the horrific wound on her cheek.
Here Kelly tells her story in her own words.
*Name has been changed to protect anonymity
Warning: The contents of this article contain graphic content
‘Bye darlings. Have a good night!’ I called from the front door as my sons Fletcher, then 19, and Cooper, 18, left in a taxi.
It was March 2024, and my boys were off to celebrate Cooper’s 18th birthday.
A single mum, I was planning to have a quiet night in, when my best friend Tracy messaged.
Come for a drink at *Ally’s house, the text read, referring to a mutual friend.
Ally and I both owned dachshunds, and had crossed paths on our morning walk a couple of times, but I’d never been to her house before.
One drink can’t hurt, I thought.
After confirming the address, I headed over there around 9.30pm.
When I arrived at Ally’s house I was greeted at the door by her cute black and tan sausage dog, Benji.
Kneeling, I gave him a pat hello before making my way inside.
We stood in the kitchen sipping on glasses of red wine, and before long we were twirling around the room to our favourite Prince songs.
‘I’ll finish my drink and make a move.’
Needing to catch my breath, I took a seat on the kitchen floor, resting my back against the cupboards.
With Ally upstairs and Tracy having a smoke on the balcony, it was just me and the dog, who was sitting in his crate about four metres away.
By now it was close to midnight.
I’ll finish my drink and make a move, I thought.
I was chatting to Tracy through the open door, when suddenly, Ally’s dog bounded up to me and lunged at my throat.
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Acting on instinct I tucked my chin to my chest and put my hands in front of my neck to protect myself.
But the dog wasn’t done.
It latched onto my face and I howled in agony.
‘Get it off!’ I screamed over and over as he bit down on my left cheek.
‘This is really bad.’
Rushing to my aid, Tracy grabbed him around the waist and started pulling at the dog to let go.
But its vice-like grip tightened. As the dog sank its teeth deeper into my flesh, I could feel its hot breath against my skin and warm sticky blood pouring down my face.
As the dog’s anger escalated it began shaking my face viciously from side to side like it was a rag doll.
Just when I thought my skin couldn’t stretch any more, I let out a blood curdling scream as the sausage dog’s teeth broke free of my face, a chunk of my cheek still in his jaws.
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I watched in horror as he devoured my shredded flesh in two bites.
Hearing the commotion, Ally ran downstairs and quickly locked her dog in its crate.
As I looked around in terror, I saw my blood was splattered over the kitchen cupboards and had started pooling on the ground in front of me.
‘You’re safe now, Mum. You’re going to be okay.’
Rushing over to the tap, I splashed cold water on my face, screaming with all my might as it touched my gaping wound.
Drying my face gently with a kitchen towel, I ran to the mirror in the living room.
‘This is really bad,’ I cried when I saw the 10cm x 7cm hole in my face.
Ally called emergency services, but they assumed it was a prank call and hung up.
By now I’d lost so much blood, I knew if I waited any longer I’d be dead.
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Pulling out my phone, I messaged my close friend and neighbour, Richard.
Can you come and get me? It’s really bad.
Just as Richard was leaving, my boys arrived home and jumped in the car with him.
While I waited for them, I locked myself in the bathroom, trying to calm down.
When they arrived, Tracy helped me into the car and we sped to the hospital.
‘You’re safe now, Mum. You’re going to be okay,’ the boys said with a cuddle.
‘You’re beautiful, Mum.’
There, I was pumped with strong antibiotics as doctors were worried about the level of bacteria in the dog’s mouth.
Then, after applying numbing cream to my face, they scrubbed the open wound with steel wool to flush it out and prevent infection.
It felt torturous.
A dressing and bandage were applied to my face, and I was sent home for the night to rest.
The next day I was back at hospital to have my wound closed.
During the five-hour op, surgeons took skin from my neck and grafted it over the horrific wound on my cheek.
Back at home that night with 80 stitches in my face, I struggled with flashbacks of the attack, later causing PTSD and depression.
Tracy visited me every afternoon to help with the boys, as well as cooking and cleaning.
Over the next few weeks I remained on heavy antibiotics and used prescribed collagen cream to aid my skin’s recovery.
I was devastated to learn that the dog had been euthanised.
But, although this made me sad, I was glad that it couldn’t hurt anyone again.
Now two years on from the ordeal, I no longer have a friendship with Ally.
While my wounds have healed well, I’ve been left with scars on my cheek from the brutal attack.
I struggle to leave the house without Fletcher, now 20, and Cooper, 19, by my side, and cover my facial disfigurements with thick make-up.
‘You’re beautiful, Mum,’ the boys remind me.
I still love cuddling up with my own sweet sausage dogs, Maggie and Monty.
They know when I’m having a bad day and show their love with licks.
Through it all, they have helped me heal.
Soon I’ll need to undergo further surgery, where surgeons will transfer fat from another part of my body to fill out my cheek.
For now, I’m just grateful to be alive.
