It’s a dog’s life for our mollycoddled mutts

It was too hot for a jacket. None of the humans on the street were wearing one. Even worse, the poor, panting creature was clutched to its owner’s chest, which I dare say on a chilly winter night would have been quite pleasant. At 30 C, it should be classified as a torture technique.

We exchanged glances as I walked past, and the dog, now squatting indignantly next to a trash bin as it did its business in the full public glare, seemed to say, “You see what I have to put up with?”

I was reminded of that dog last week during the general election in the United Kingdom. So many Brits dragged their mutts to vote that the pictures sparked the hashtag #dogsatpollingstations. Scanning through the photos (yes, I do have that much time on my hands), a few of the put-upon pups look like they’re soldiering on through trying circumstances, but most share the dejected embarrassment of their cousin in Beijing.

So where does this need people have for treating their four-legged friends like surrogate babies come from? Well, I blame the dogs.

According to scientists, those crafty canines have evolved a “cute switch”, rather like the one kids use to get out of trouble or into an adult’s wallet. They’ve worked us out and know exactly what buttons to push. But they’ve misjudged us because although this trickery gets them treats and onto the furniture, it also gets them severely mollycoddled. Hence the jackets.

Our affection for dogs runs deep. I used to live with a retired racing greyhound — one of the most gentle and affable souls you could hope to meet. She also happened to be the smelliest animal that ever walked this planet.

Her flatulence bordered on the apocalyptic. I’ve seen plants wither and die, wallpaper crumble and decay and birds fall from the sky because they got caught downwind … Okay, maybe not, but it was pretty bad.

Anyway, I used to get home late from the newspaper I was working for, when everyone in the house was asleep. Creeping to the bedroom in the darkness so I wouldn’t wake anyone up, I would reach the open door. Then the sound, like a child learning the trumpet.

My body instinctively braced for impact before the rank fog sent me reeling from the room, eyes burning as I stifled a coughing fit and soothed my gag reflex. This happened regularly. I slept in the spare room a lot back then.

But even now, many years later, I remember these gas attacks with fondness. And even now I miss her big, dumb face.

I never thought I’d find another place that was as sappy about its dogs as the UK. But right now, in Beijing and Birmingham, there are people carrying around dogs with perfectly functioning legs.

I just hope none of them are wearing one of those ridiculous jackets. No living creature deserves such an indignity.