‘They say the dog is man's best friend. I don't believe that. How many friends have you had neutered?' Larry Reeb

There's a fellow we know who invariably gets wrong the saying, ‘It's a dog eat dog world': He says, ‘It's doggy-dog world'.

But when you start to think about it, around here it is definitely a doggy-dog world. They march by our house with their human companions. They poop in the park, something we hope their human companions do not, and we hear them yapping when we amble pass the houses in which they are pampered. Sometimes I believe we about the only people in the Cranbook region who do not harbour a canine quadruped. We have to make do with books.

We've been owned by dogs in our time because, as Corey Ford announced, “Properly trained, a man can be dog's best friend.”

Our first boon companion was a yellow lab/boxer cross that we called Tryfan. He got himself killed by a truck whilst attempting to protect me from it, despite my warning not to be so damn stupid. He must have reckoned that ‘Every dog is entitled to one bite' and paid for it right there.

People seem to like dogs because, according to Aldous Huxley, to them, ‘every man is a Napoleon; hence their constant popularity' and, as Morecai Siegal is supposed to have said, ‘Acquiring a dog may be the only opportunity a human ever has to choose a relative.' After all, you can't suddenly decide to send a relative outside because of certain offensive odours or for chewing the carpet, nor have him put down because you are bored with him. And, in many cases, that's a pity.

Our second canine acquisition was a German short-haired pointer. She was short of brains too, but that fact didn't appear in her pedigree. Hexa, the witch, was always cold. Her short hair wasn't totally adequate for the mountainous places that we took her so, when we camped, she'd select the warmest of us and snuggle up, shivering all night.

Hexa almost drowned some of our friends by getting into all sorts of pickles. She fell through cornices, broke through lake ice, plunged into raging rivers and generally tried to commit suicide. But, as Corey Ford wrote, ‘Every dog should have a man of his own. There is nothing like a well-behaved person around the house to spread the dog's blanket for him, or bring his supper when he comes home man-tired at nights.' Hexa had a good dog's life.

We adopted our third canine companion. He had been called ‘Led Zeppelin' after the rock group but to us he was always Zep. He even listened when we spoke to him. He never once tackled a truck, fell through a cornice nor imperiled himself or any of our friends by falling into raging torrents. He was a most sensible dog even to the point of giving us that look that says, “My god, you're right! I never would have thought of that,” even when we said something utterly inane.

I am not really fond of the little yap dogs. As Craig Shoemaker wrote, ‘My dog is half pit-bull, half poodle. Not much of a guard dog, but a vicious gossip.' And when I think back over the years of doggy association, I have only ever been bitten by a tiny critter. It was more like an animated arm-pit really but I should have known. Maybe I offended the beast somehow but I've never forgotten that ‘If it looks like a dog and it barks like a dog, there's a strong possibility that it is in fact a member of the canis family and will probably bite someone sooner or later.' That tiny thing sure got me. I had to go for tetanus shots. ‘To err is human, to forgive is canine,' someone once wrote. I erred. Did that vicious little animal forgive my trespassing? I am willing to bet it trotted off victorious, laughing with its ridiculous little tail awag.