When a normal dog barks, the owner’s first reaction might be annoyance. But when a trained police dog barks, it’s an alert—he senses a threat. From the top of the attic stairs, I saw Waffles at the French doors, barking like crazy at something outside.

Grabbing the torch, I moved quickly down the stairs. Waffles was at the back door. He was in a delighted frenzy, barking his continuous alert bark, tail wagging like a windscreen wiper. I looked outside but couldn’t see anything in the pitch-black country night. Adrenaline surged through me; made me feel taller. Waffle’s lead was on the bench and I grabbed it and snapped it on his collar. Despite their regal looks, police dogs in work mode were incredibly dangerous and so was Waffles right at this moment.

‘C’mon, boy,’ I said and opened the back door. Like a rock from a slingshot, Waffles flew outside. He raced towards the back shed, bounding gracefully in the dark. I used half my own strength and half the dog’s strength to keep up. At the shed, Waffles skidded to a halt and barked ferociously at the door. I held the lead tightly.

‘Who’s in there?’ I called, hearing the catch in my voice as the adrenaline coursed through me like a hit of narcotic.

I couldn’t hear any response, but that may have been because of Waffles’ barking. It was pointless trying to shut him up when he was in this state of excitement. Police dogs read adrenaline in their handlers as a signal that they are going to work—which for them is the equivalent of play. They also sense fear. Whoever was on the other side of the shed door was scared, and Waffles fed off it like a good alpha-male police dog should.

I reached out, turned the handle of the shed door, then yanked it open. I held on to Waffles, who was nearly out of his mind. His deep baritone bark echoed into the space.

‘Come out!’ I called, stepping back and shining the torch into the shed.

A large figure came from behind the door and charged. I caught the glint of a huge knife blade in the torch beam.

‘Attack!’ I yelled to Waffles and let go of the lead.

Like a spring, Waffles flew into the air, and I swung the heavy police-issue torch at the arm holding the knife. The man screamed and the knife clunked to the ground. I kicked it clear as he was knocked to the ground by a big black furious ball of fur and teeth, snarling and biting.

‘Stop!’ I ordered, and like he was trained to do, Waffles instantly stopped biting and returned to my side.

‘Fucken hell!’ panted the wounded man.

‘Who are you?’ I yelled. ‘What the hell are you doing in my shed?’

The man tried to scramble to his feet.