My little warm, brown friend, Harris, was bred, or his ancestors, strictly speaking, were bred to kill things, other creatures, to root them out and shake'n'bite them to death. I buy him soft toys from the thrift shops, remove the eyes and buttons and he grrrr-woofs like a good 'un, ripping the dog or monkey or giraffe to pieces, the lock and the pull of his jaws is amazing but an adult would only need to shout at him or smack him and he would cease his killing exercises; a crying baby, however, would only inflame him, the crying and squeaking representing progress on the road to another's dusty death. There are stratagems to ensure baby's safety, brushing his crib with the dog 's own scent is supposed to work but I would be very hesitant about introducing a new-born baby to HarrisWorld. He is a goodboy, Harris, he barks like a mad person but I have never known him bite or nip anyone and he endures all manner of indignity at the hands of mrs ishmael's grandson, who is eight and correspondingly stupid; that is a relationship which I am happy to police watchfully, a dog bite hurts at any age, however foolish the provocation. An infant, though, he needs better protection than Tony Blair and the parents of the child worried to death a few days ago by the family pet didn't know that, now, the kid is dead and the pet destroyed, funny how the filthsters always say destroyed or put down, put to sleep, none of them having the courage to say The dog was killed. Anyway, this is a horribly mundane and preventable tragedy, full of if-onlys, a mistake, an oversight, carelessness which will lead to a lifetime of aching regret. And what do we do? We arrest one of the victims. Can't arrest a rancid old peer for a lifetime of beasting but we can arrest a stupid and distraught father, former father. Sometimes, I feel like a motherless child, a long way from home.