Until quite recently, we always kept a pet. Nothing exotic, invariably just bog standard cats and dogs.
In our early days we had a penchant for whippets, and at one time, we were owned by a brace of dachshunds.
Latterly, we were into lurchers.
When we were just married, we dabbled briefly with Mynah birds and cats, but sadly the cats and the Peel to Douglas main road did not mix, and the Mynah birds were always arguing, so we ended up with man’s best friend.
Have you noticed a whole new pet industry has sprung up? Some marketing genius has found a way of persuading people to buy mongrels for as much money as they would spend on a pedigree model.
They call them fancy names such as ‘labrapiddle’ and ‘spandalatian’ and sell as many as they can get their hands on.
Most of today’s dogs have been developed from ancestors that were kept as working animals.
They have pulled sledges, herded cattle and sheep, hunted everything from hares to humans, and kept watch over property. They have been used as hot water bottles and Sunday dinners.
Their stomachs have seen service as floats for fishing nets and they’ve delivered countless miniature barrels of brandy to Swiss mountaineers.
They have been film stars, pop stars, ladies, tramps and astronauts. They have been trained to search for, and find, drugs, explosives, truffles and earthquake victims.
They have been given names such as Shep, Lassie and Patch, and have been the eyes and ears for thousands of folk who have difficulty in seeing or hearing.
One of my favourite doggie tales takes some wagging.
I was walking down Victoria Street when I saw a young lady wearing a high vis jacket.
Then I saw a man and a dog similarly jacketed. I quickly sussed that the man was being trained to be as clever as his new dog and the young lady was going to give him marks out of 10.
The man and the dog were going to cross the road. They turned and approached the edge of the pavement.
The dog, who obviously had a bit of sense, had weighed up the fact there was approaching traffic, so it sat down to wait until the road was clear.
A lady driving a small black car saw this dog and this man in high vis jackets and decided that it was time to do her good deed for the day. She stopped the car and waved them to cross the road.
Now, as I am sure you know, guide dogs are trained to ‘sit’ if they see an approaching car. I didn’t wait to see what happened next.
Like most things today, owning a dog is not as straightforward as it once was. In the old days, all you needed to do was to find the dog of your dreams and buy a dog licence. Unless of course you were a Douglas Corporation tenant.
If you lived in a Corpy house, you were obliged to have written permission from the town clerk. I had never given this matter very much thought, and as far as I know, neither had anyone else.
A quick phone call to the Town Hall and a short conversation with a patient Corporation officer did confirm if you are a tenant of a Corporation house or flat and fancied keeping a Latvian Polehound or something similar, you do have to have written permission.
Dogs are deservedly known as man’s best friend.
They will retrieve every ball that you throw. They will proudly carry a stick for miles and they will act like a comedian if given half a chance.
Recently, we were invited to a reception at Government House. The place was packed. I was sitting down, enjoying a glass of the Governor’s merlot when his little dog appeared.
It was doing that special doggie trick. Pulling itself along with its front legs, his back legs in the air, and his itchy backside being scratched by the Axminster. Priceless!