Imagine my delight when I heard the news that Priti Patel had announced the establishment of a special UK taskforce to tackle pet crime. And then imagine my disappointment when I realised that the crime in question was mostly dognapping, which apparently rose 19 per cent in 2020. The theft of a dog is indeed, as the home secretary has claimed, a “vile” offence. And although many cynics scoffed at Lady Gaga last month when she bemoaned the loss of her two beloved French bulldogs (stolen at gunpoint on a quiet street in Hollywood) and offered a whopping $500,000 for their safe return (which they were), most of us dog owners sympathised completely and saw only the natural response to a primal violation. Some of us, in fact, were thinking: “Half a mill? Is that all? Maybe she hasn’t properly bonded yet.”
And still, important though this work is, I would have expected any sensible and conscientious pet taskforce to focus on an entirely different set of crimes. In my mind’s eye, for instance, I picture a squad of heavily armed police officers roaming the streets and public parks and pouncing on unsuspecting owners who allow their pooches to foul the pavements and grassy verges with little more than a shoulder shrug and a muttered: “Mind your business!” This isn’t hyperbole. The dog fouling problem is real, and witnessed by a private rubbish collection company that recently noted how so-called poo litter had risen 200 per cent during lockdown. These dog owners are everywhere and I would throw the book, with a lifetime’s supply of biodegradable poo bags, at them.
Or, better still, the pet cops handing out instant fines to blatantly inept or overindulgent owners who allow their darlings to jump up on you, covering you in muddy paw prints while they babble away affectionately: “Awwww, she’s only being playful! Don’t react! Isn’t she adorable?” A thousand pounds for that. On the spot. Double if they manage to get a lick in.
And, worst of all, I’d probably demand a custodial sentence for the woman I encountered last week on the nearby common attempting to “recall” her faraway and deeply disinterested labrador by howling out repeatedly the most hideous ear-splitting ululation: “Dolly-Dolly-Dolly-Dolleeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Dolly-Dolly-Dolly-Dolleeeeeeeeeee!” Dolly, of course, couldn’t be bothered (she lifted her head up occasionally and looked over as if to say: “And?”), yet everybody within a 50-mile radius must have struggled not to fall to the ground while clutching their skulls and crying: “Make it stop!”
Dolly-Dolly-Dolly-Dolleeeeeeeeee! The owner had clearly been ill-advised by a dubious dog trainer to make the recall chant exciting (they always say that — it’s nonsense) to arouse the dog’s interest. But somewhere along the line Dolly had stopped reacting and the owner, doubling down on the trainer’s advice, had nudged “exciting” right over the edge into “hysterical”. I picture the pet cops smashing through her door in the small hours, showing her the video of her recall crimes (I should have filmed it) and then slapping her in cuffs while announcing: “You’re under arrest for being a gullible idiot who displays terrible insensitivity towards other people who share the same public space!”
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I can say all this with impunity, of course, because I am the dog master. I see other dog owners and I watch the mistakes they’re making, and I groan with disappointment. Don’t they know anything? Haven’t they learnt how to keep their canines under control?
While I have been writing this, my fluffy, now 12-week-old Leonberger puppy has done a poo behind the door of my study, has leapt up and scratched my ten-year-old son on the arm and has dashed out to the garden, where she is hiding behind the compost bin, unwilling to come out. But, well, she’s only being playful. And, ye know, isn’t she adorable?
Why I will not drink mocha
Nothing, apparently, and for obvious reasons, makes a woman more indignant than being told to count the calories. Observe the members of the Women and Equalities Committee, who recently advised the government to scrap its plans to put calorie labels on food in restaurants, cafés and takeaways for fear that it will shame diners or risk causing eating disorders. Hmm. Seems like a missed opportunity to me. I used to be a big Starbucks mocha drinker. Couldn’t get enough of that yummy venti-size mid-afternoon chocolatey coffee hit. Then the last time I was in New York, five years ago, I nipped into a Starbucks for a cheeky mocha and I noticed, to my horror, from the giant calorie board that a venti mocha was 450 calories. And that was before the honey pumps and cinnamon sprinkles! The whole thing, just prior to consumption, must have been far beyond 500 calories. For a drink? I have not, genuinely, had a single mocha since that day. I’d call that a win for calorie labelling, no?
A week in Wales? It’s too pricey
I see that everyone’s moaning about the prohibitive price of holidaying abroad this summer, due to compulsory Covid testing. Seems that we’ll all have to do two expensive PCR tests at roughly £120 each, per family member, for any trip to and from so-called “green list” countries. For me that’s an extra £1,200 to the family tally. Which, you’d think, would make a UK vacation the sensible option. Or at least I did, until I tried to book a week-long summer stay in a cottage, a very modest cottage, a pretty crappy cottage, the only available cottage, in fact, in Wales. The asking price? £3,000. Well done, holiday landlords. You’ve just persuaded me to go to Greece. Cheaper, even with the tests!
