It quite frankly gets up my nose to hear people comparing the life of a dog to that of some bloated eastern potentate, lying around all day and getting fed and watered for free. As though a dog's life were one long holiday.
Well, believe me, it ain't... and I speak from personal experience as an all-round leaky bottomed, fully paid-up member of the canine fraternity. Oh, it's all very well for those embarrassingly pampered pedigree pooches with two names: One for the show ring and one for home. You know the sort of rubbish... Budleigha Star of Glencrombie becomes just plain old Bud back at the kennels.
So spare a thought for us, less pedigreed fusions, through no fault of our own, other than the accident of birth. Take me for example: I happen to be an exotic amalgam of a tal-kacca crossed with a King Charles spaniel mother, who got taken from behind one Thursday lunchtime, while she was consuming a dish of Pedigree Chum - ironically enough, by a randy, combination of tick-ridden Rottweiler, Cocker Spaniel, Miniature Poodle and we think there's just a touch of Great Dane in there somewhere as well.
Whatever, life is never easy for a dog of... mixed breed (race). We never get the pick of the best jobs. I mean, have you ever seen a mongrel guide dog? No you haven't, because that plum and extremely well rewarded position, always goes to your golden or black Labradors. And we never get taken on long romps in the country to fetch shot down birds. They give us some piffle about our mouths not being soft enough. Absolute rubbish! If I want to retrieve - I'll retrieve, I don't have to have to have a mouth like a jellyfish's bum to bring back a shot-up golden oriole. OK, so it may come back a bit chewed, but it'll get back somehow.
And have you heard the latest? Actually it's a bit older than latest: they are now trying to either stop us from doing what comes naturally and taking a dump on the street, or making our people pick it up in a plastic bag! What next? Mopping up our pee with a hanky?
No, a dog's life is a load of grief. Take life-spans. People get to walk the earth for 70 years plus, but come 10 or 12, that's it for us. Kersplatt. "Poor old Fido's looking a bit terminal, better whip him down to the vet's and get the geriatric old sod put down". Oh nice, thanks very much. It's faithful old Fido for nine-and-a-half years, then as soon as we start to get a bit forgetful and start doing it on the sitting-room Axminster, it's time for the final hypodermic shot.
And please don't give me all that tripe about one year of a human's life being equal to seven of ours. It's not, it's exactly the same. Just look at my poor old dad. Eleven years old he was - just getting his second wind - when they did him in. And I'm not expecting anything different. One misplaced pee or a harmless nip of my person's ankle and I know what to expect. Well it's not fair, how would you like it?
And a dog's life is getting worse, if that's possible. Time was when visiting trades people expected to be bitten by the family pooch. It was sort of a given, every dog did it.
No longer. Just try sinking your pearlies into the postman today, you'll be cat meat before you can say Whiskas!
Ridiculous! And you never hear anyone say: 'It's a cat's life'. But you should.
They are the ones who have it easy. Lying around all day and messing around all night. If we dogs tried that routine we'd soon get a bucket of water thrown over us - or worse, get taken down to that vet again for surgery in a very tender place.
A dog's life? Oh purleeze!