Top dogs Why mongrels bring pure joy to their owners
Dogs of unknown origins may not be in fashion, says Charlotte Lytton, but they love and live longer
Scruffy hair, doleful eyes, a face from which its origins aren’t immediately clear: I don’t refer to myself (though such a description might well apply), but to mongrels – the furballs often dismissed for their pet prowess on account of being a little rough around the edges.
That may soon change, however, under Government plans to crack down on puppy farms, where animals are bred intensively to meet soaring demand for social-mediafriendly “designer” breeds, such as French bulldogs, Pomeranians, shih tzus and pugs.
Currently out for consultation, the scheme will mean that those seeking to adopt a pet less than six months old will have to go to a breeder or rescue centre instead, with the aim of reducing the litany of health problems associated with animals reared in unfavourable conditions.
The ban was inspired by one particular dog – a cavalier King Charles spaniel named Lucy, who was cruelly forced to go through an obscene number of pregnancies in her short, caged life.
Anything that stops the mistreatment of our beloved fluffsters can only be a good thing, but what I’ve never quite understood is why people want a pure-breed anyway. Yes, a glossy-maned chocolate lab may inspire a chorus of coos as it trots down the high street; a button-eyed beagle might be the envy of its less esteemed peers on the common, but in my experience, mongrels make the best pets.
I was 10 when I first laid eyes on Jingle Bells, a terriertype ragamuffin, poking her nose through her shared cage at the National Animal Welfare Centre in Bushey. We had visited a few rescue outfits in our search for a family pet and, after my hand had nearly been taken off by a dalmatian at another (an upsetting way to discover the breed’s nature differs from Disney’s portrayal), this black-and-brown mutt of unknown heritage was the obvious choice.
She had arrived at the centre’s gates one night before Christmas with a sign around her neck saying “9 months, please feed”, staff told us. Soon after that, she rushed through the front door of our home, which would be her own for the next 15 years.
To have any living being in your life for that period of time will leave an indelible mark – all the more so when they have been responsible for so much mirth, and sat there, curled up in the bends of your knees, through every pivotal stage of life, never failing to greet you with a joyous wag of the tail or excited squeal.
That was Koko (a name that felt more suitable than the moniker the centre had given her – or, at least, less season-specific). Getting a dog provoked much excitement among my school friends, but when they asked what she was? Well, that much I couldn’t answer. But we decided that she was part-terrier, part greyhound (on account of her ability to tear across the local cricket pitch at lightning speed), relaying this theory with relish to anyone who would listen. Sure, it was a longer tale to tell than that of one friend, who had a German shepherd, and another, who had two chihuahuas – but doesn’t a winding back story add a touch of intrigue?
Koko was certainly never fashionable, particularly in the age of Paris Hilton types with over-coiffed shih tzus peering out of their handbags. But like all of us for whom beauty isn’t our defining characteristic, what she lacked in looks, she more than made up for in personality. And besides, having a dog that didn’t particularly resemble anyone else’s felt all the more special, sparking conversations and questions that a well-worn breed simply wouldn’t. We didn’t know where she came from, and it didn’t matter.
There were hangovers, we assumed, from her pre-us days – she hated being picked up, and touching her tail was a no-no. But these were small prices to pay, not least when compared with my encounters from the pedigree front line.
I thought my status as a doglover would make reporting from Crufts for these pages a breeze: in fact, seeing row upon row of every iteration of canine – each indistinguishable from the rest of their breed – being preened over and pruned by their overwrought owners was unsettling.
So, too, was a “pug meet-up” I found myself attending at the request of a friend; again, full of over-bred animals for whom even walking and normal breathing seemed to be a challenge. They might look nice in the pictures posted on Instagram, I thought, but why deny both yourself and your dog a longer, fuller life of companionship, beef jerky snacks and the unadulterated thrill of walkies, for the sake of a few “likes”?
I’ll bet that owners of pure-breeds believe their pooches are the best things on four legs. And no, mongrels may never be celebrity canine flavour of the month, or make it on to “most fashionable dogs” lists. But love and longevity, the defining characteristics of mixed breeds, surely matter so much more.