When my grandfather was about four or five, he was jumped by a pack of sled dogs in the Alaskan village where his father was the local Episcopal priest. After one of the men beat the dogs off (saving his life), my great-grandfather knocked him out with ether and cauterized all the wounds with a red-hot poker. When I knew him, his whole head was covered with old scars. He was a tough old bird, though; died about twenty years ago, five days shy of 99.