MY DAUGHTER Rose and I spent a winter’s afternoon visiting an old friend with a new baby.

Snuggling the newborn, breathing in the scent of her and marvelling at her beauty we were enveloped by that special sense of peace that settles over a family like a blanket when a new baby has finally stopped crying.

The family’s dog lay by the fire for most of the visit, quietly dozing. When she did move around she was calm, almost unnoticeable. I’m not much of a dog person but Rose loves them so she’d gently patted the dog once or twice during the day.

As we adults gathered in the narrow hallway saying our goodbyes, Rose crouched on her hands and knees, face level with the dog, saying goodbye to her too. Her movements weren’t jerky, her actions were not rough.

“Don’t put your face so close to the dog, Rose,” said my mate. It didn’t seem to be a warning, as such, just a comment that kids’ faces and dogs’ teeth shouldn’t be in such close proximity.

A split second later, the dog snapped at Rose’s face and she was screaming out, pleading with me to “Call an ambulance, call an ambulance.” Her hands hid her face but blood poured over them thoroughly soaking her jumper, as she stood, eyes wide, in shock.

In shock myself, I couldn’t comprehend the seriousness of her injuries. Despite the blood, I assumed she was overreacting, and that it would be a bandaid and a Panadol solution.

“Show me,” I instructed, but Rose was frozen, she couldn’t move her hands. When she did, I wished I’d never asked. Her face was scratched from the inside corner of her eye, down her nose and half of her top and bottom lips were gaping, open wounds.

Rose’s lips were swollen and the flesh was sickeningly exposed but even worse was the panic in her eyes. She knew it was bad.

As we were in a rural area, the ambulance took longer than usual to arrive. Waiting in that bathroom, my child bleeding and terrified, my own heart beat faster and harder in my chest. I held her gaze with my eyes, assuring her that she would be OK. My poor baby.

I blamed myself for not having left one minute earlier, for taking her out there in the first place, for not knowing that the dog might bite her.

The ambos were calm as they strapped Rose in to the ambulance and administered pain relief. She dozed, but the hour it took to reach the hospital was one of the most stressful of my life. The paramedic spoke quietly on the phone to doctors but I could do nothing to help.

Once we reached the sanctity of the hospital and Rose was settled in a bed, I left her room for a moment. Completely traumatised, I slumped on the floor outside her room and sobbed until a surgeon arrived. It would be another 24 hours until the operation, we were told.

Rose has had a long road to recovery because the psychological scars of an incident such as this last way longer than the physical indications.

Her rehab involved massaging her intensely painful scar tissue, every day, until she cried. To rejuvenate the nerve endings she applied a range of textured items (i.e. feathers, beads) to her lips.

For months she could only drink from a straw because it was difficult to wrap her lips around a glass. Worse, for her, were the nightmares and the regular trips to the psychologist to work through her anxiety and regulate her emotions.

Luckily, Rose has an obsession with cute little puppies like shih tzus and poodles so she has not developed a canine phobia. When we see these dogs out in public she is drawn to them and wants to engage. But I hover close to her, reminding her to keep her face away from theirs.

However, when we encounter a larger dog, Rose’s body stiffens. She asks me to put my hands over her face, just in case it attacks and she needs protection. I do, and I’m poised to react at every moment.

For our family, the bite and operation was just the beginning. The effects of the attack extended into our lives long after the hospital visits were over. I became aware that all of my children were traumatised by the attack to different degrees.

Previously I was employed in a much loved role as a teacher of secondary students who had been disengaged from school. The traumas that these students carry are vicariously experienced by the staff who work with them, and I found myself lacking the emotional robustness that I knew I would need in order to engage them properly.

Despite the financial strain, I felt I had no choice but to be present and available for my children during this time, so I resigned.

Long term, Rose’s scars have healed well on the outside. If you didn’t know she’d had this injury you’d think she was just like any other child in the playground. But external scars are not the full extent of the impact of this attack on her life.

Recently we went, as a family, on a much anticipated trip to snorkel on the Great Barrier Reef. Sadly, Rose could not join in. We realised, on the day, that the scar tissue on the inside of her mouth made it too painful for her to bear the pressure of the mask or the rigid plastic of the mouthpiece.

While her brothers splashed in the ocean and observed the magnificent, colourful marine life, she sat on the deck of the boat, forlorn.

In time, the scar tissue will heal and she should be able to function normally, but the memory of the attack will remain. Each report of another dog attack elicits a strong reaction from Rose. She is drawn to the TV reports and feels true empathy with the victims. She feels lucky. “At least I still have my ear, and my life”, she says.