You loving your dog doesn’t mean I do

Ilike animals, in a broad wouldn’t-hurt-them kinda way, but I’m not one of those animal addicts who are instantly drawn to every creature that passes their way. I certainly don’t feel the urge to touch animals that happen by and am quite happy for them not to touch me. Following a scary incident with dogs as a child, I had a fear that only diminished into unease when I was an adult. Then I had kids, which proved way scarier.

Those kids shared not my animal weirdness and wanted a dog, so did their father. Three against one, I conceded defeat. And once broken I conceded a long line of defeats, shaped like hamsters, rabbits, the hound and a bloody goat. Really. Morphing into Doctor Doolittle has been mostly a superficial exercise, not so much a soul one, and I would still prefer not to touch animals and for them not to touch me. Especially random ones. I think it is one of those things you either get or you don’t.

Perhaps because I am an unwilling dog-owner as opposed to the devoted kind, it is easier for me to understand that not everyone is as delighted to have a hound slobber on them as their owners are. Some people, and in my observation it tends to be male people, are very considerate about their dogs invading your space and do their best to intervene. Others, more likely female, it pains me to say, can be a bit on the casual side. Instead of removing their hound, they’ll say, “He’s very friendly.” Really? Cos being covered in droplets of cocker spaniel-scented pond water doesn’t feel that pally. But last week I witnessed a whole new deployment of the “very friendly” owner oblivion syndrome when a woman said it after her dog ran over and took a whizz on a little kid’s ball. “He gets very excited,” sez she, by way of further explanation. Oh, well, that’s OK then?