Boy called Lamb gets the si­lent nod


If dogs are meant to look like their own­ers, I’m won­der­ing why I’ve just be­come the proud owner of a three-year-old male hunt­away called Lamb. Yip - a boy called Lamb. I’m not quite sure how Lamb got his name, but in a town where one syl­la­ble dog names are de rigeur, his ar­rival has been met with a si­lent nod of ap­proval from the farm­ing fra­ter­nity.

In a town of Jacks and Aces, Lamb should fit in nicely.

The farm­ers, who mut­ter qui­etly amongst them­selves about the district’s go­ings-on (or not go­ing on, as it usu­ally turns out to be) have la­belled my new mutt the town’s an­swer to Ken­dall Jen­ner be­cause of his slightly girly sound­ing name. But the fact he’s a hunt­away means there will be no scorn thrown Lamb’s way.

And be­cause he came pre­loaded with a name from a farm ‘up north’, the piss-tak­ing should even­tu­ally die down.

Lamb, you see, is a manly dog and is will­ing to work, so he passes muster. In a town where a lazy ca­nine would never make the grade. Hunt­aways, head­ing dogs, col­lies and fox­ies make up the ca­nine pop­u­la­tion in our town.

There’s the odd labrador about, a golden re­triever.

Most farm­ers have a foxy for their rat­ting, pos­sum­ing or mous­ing abil­i­ties, and per­haps their abil­ity to ig­nore the con­fines that fences pro­vide, wan­der the neigh­bour­hood like they own it, chase kids on bikes and crap on other peo­ple’s lawns.

Hunt­aways, head­ing dogs and col­lies earn their keep round­ing up mobs of sheep or cat­tle, re­mind­ing them who’s boss with a good throaty bark.

A good work­ing dog does the job of a man, I’m told. And all for the price of a few bis­cuits, a bone to chew on and a ken­nel to have a snooze in at night.

There’s not a lot of af­fec­tion shown to­wards them, but they crave it all the same.

The odd pat on the head or slap on the side for a job well done is enough to keep the tail on your work­ing dog wag­ging.

There’s not a lot of pan­der­ing and pam­per­ing and there’s cer­tainly none of your designer breeds within cooee of our town.

You would not want to be seen dead walk­ing your gold­en­doo­dle, labradoo­dle or cock­apoo on our mean streets, un­less you want to be sub­jected to much ridicule next time you try to en­joy a pint.

A farmer friend’s wife has one of those long-haired breeds liv­ing out on the farm at the mo­ment, and I know for a fact that he’s not only never told any­one about it he hasn’t been seen with it ei­ther.

It might be a Pug’s Life if you’re into trends, but trends have never been big in our neck of the woods any­way.

Heaven for­bid any­one who starts dress­ing their dog in designer threads, or car­ry­ing their tiny timid lit­tle thing to the shop or pub in a hand­bag.

Dogs are not meant to be bet­ter dressed than their own­ers.

Paris Hil­ton and her ca­nine com­pan­ions would not make the grade, I’m afraid.

Heaven for­bid any­one who starts dress­ing their dog in designer threads...

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