Love me, love my dog
Why...
When you come to my house do I suggest you donât criticise my dogs as I wonât judge your children (at least not out loud).
Now I completely accept some people donât like dogs... in the same way I accept that some people believe Elvis Presley is alive, well and riding Shergar across Area 51.
The thing about dogs is their love is unconditional. Even Hitlerâs pet Alsatian Blondi no doubt thought Adolf a loveable chap who fed him scraps and gave him a splendid kennel complete with a swastika weathervane. That pooch was always pleased to see Mein Fuhrer, even after a hard dayâs genocide.
In fact dogs are the ultimate sycophants. They laugh at your jokes, look at you admiringly, even perform tricks on demand... of course in return they expect to get food and shelter.
Dogs have indeed come a long way from their wolf forebears and many are more metrosexual with clipped nails and smart coats than flea infested hunters of old. In fact were man to become extinct in a haze of radioactive mushroom clouds, Iâm afraid manâs best friend would follow pretty shortly afterwards.
The idea that Pepe the Chihuahua would survive in a post apocalypse world is farcical unless the radiation allows him to develop thumbs to open any tins of Kanga Chunks that he might uncover in the ruins of the post atomic blast.
