LADY AT LEISURE

Pretty as a picture, but one cute canine leaves behind a little more than happy memories

Fiona Armstrong discovers that here’s no such thing as the perfect dog

We have a new dog in the house. She is a Cavachon. For the uninitiated, that is a cross between a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel and a Bichon Frise, and the combination works well. Small, with long legs, tousled white silky hair, adorable saucer-like black eyes… you know the sort of thing.

This cute creature sashays through the door and the Naughties tiptoe around the vision of fluff. These are scruffy, rufty-tufty dogs. They get clipped and stripped twice a year. There is the occasional brushing, but a bath is the terrier’s worst nightmare. Now they are in dreamland. This beautiful bitch prances and preens, she squeals rather than barks. She commands the best dog cushion, but there are no howls of complaint or bristling of dog fur: the Naughties stand back and bow respectfully.

Her name is Bonnie and she is in Scotland with her American owner, a friend from way back. They are staying for the haggis and kilt experience, although Bonnie will never be allowed anywhere near something as nasty as a sheep’s innards. They hope for some R and R, for they are recovering from crossing the pond on a plane: first-class, of course.

Bonnie sat on her owner’s lap. There is no way this high-maintenance baby was going in the hold. Her nails are clipped. She has a girlie pink bow and matching lead. She boasts an exquisite porcelain plate from which to eat fussy food, which comes in a special wrapper and appears to be organic. The only nod to real meat is the bacon-wrapped biscuits that magically appear from time to time, for which she holds out a delicate paw. These are treats my dogs can only dream of – and they now do, all the time.

She also has a tartan coat to die for. Which is so unfair as Barra, the cocker spaniel, and Rummie, the Norfolk terrier, do not possess any clothes at all. They also have to live on Poundland biscuits, so they hang around the princess-like presence in the hope that when she gets lucky, they will too.

Yet Bonnie is actually terribly sweet, and she definitely raises the standard in the MacGregor household. Even the chief is now minding his Ps and Qs, and wiping his mud-spattered wellies on the mat when he comes in. Although I suspect that is more to do with the rather attractive American lady visitor than the dog.

It is a case of beauty and the beasts all round. But then such is the power of prettiness: men obsessing about cleanliness; politicians brought down; a thousand ships no doubt launched on the River Tay…

Beauty is big. The average Scottish woman spends £2,000 a year on keeping face and body looking good. And if you think that’s bad, look at the Brazilians. I read that the country has more Avon ladies than military personnel.

Avon claims to sell four lipsticks every second worldwide. Mercifully, t he adorable Bonnie does not wear make-up. She is perfect in every way – apart from one. When she leaves, we find unwanted little presents under tables in unused rooms. My two are mortified and look at me as if to say, ‘It wasn’t us! We may be rufty tufty, but we are house-trained…’

‘This cute creature sashays through the door and the Naughties tiptoe around the vision of fluff’