They are a bit guarded with the fool on the hill

Rab finds that as nice as it is to gain a glimpse into the convivial and welcoming club that exists among dog walkers, he just cannot bring himself to tote about a bag filled with excrement

Idon’t want to over-romanticise this, but I’ve always been an outsider. It’s just a fact, and one that I frequently regret, but I don’t belong anywhere. This situation applies even on the suburban hill. I have been well aware for some time of the fact that, in not having a mutt on the end of a leash, I am in a minority, usually of one. The hill is fed by four car parks, which disgorge the hordes of hound-exercisers from all directions. Sometimes, it has been busier up there than on the high street, with the numbers maybe even approaching three figures.

And I will be the only one without a mutt. It didn’t make me too uncomfortable until one day when I attended someone in distress, and we summoned a constable (for real, on this occasion) and he said the hill was full of oddballs committing offences.

It’s true there is an area where no decent ratepayer goes but this was far from that and, ever since, in not trailing a mutt along in my wake, I have felt a little conspicuous.

I could take a camera or wear a hat stating “Official birdwatcher” but I think I get by on account of wearing proper hiking gear, which your miscreants and loonies doubtless do without.

I’ve also made a few friends among the mutt-walkers and say hello to countless others. But it was only when I went on a walk up the hill with my mate and his mutt that I realised the warmth of community that I’d been missing.

Gosh, the effusive greetings we received, the beaming smiles. People who would usually grudge me a small “hi”, positively hollered hosannas as we approached, thinking perhaps that I had at last joined the club or at least knew someone in it.

No more the guarded smile and the mumbled hello. It was all: hail, fellow, well met. Perhaps you will say, as countless friends have done: “Why don’t you acquire a pooch, then?”

Unhand me, madam. I cannot have a hound. For a start, I’ve a weel kent horror of commitment and responsibility. There’s also the slight hangover from days gone by when I’d get a call from work and be away sometimes for days.

I’m not really a pets person, anyway, disliking the principle of the thing. Dogs strike me as greedy to the point of rudeness, while the domestic cat is clearly evil.

But, above all these considerations, I will not deal with poop. It makes me gag. The whole business revolts me and I remain utterly bewildered by the hygiene implications of picking up mutt-poo.

I used to have a nice wee flat overlooking a park in Edinburgh and, one day, looked out the window and saw two Morningside ladies greeting each other. Very civilised, and one imagined them discussing a recent bridge tournament or forthcoming lunchtime concert but each of them was swinging about a bag of ordure. A man in my position cannot be seen swinging about small sacks of excrement. I regret, therefore, that I will not be joining the Doggy Club.

Soon, I guess, the greetings on the hill will become guarded again, and I’ll be given suspicious looks that say: “He is not one of us.”