A FEW weeks ago I slipped on a big dog's pooper outside my newsagent's shop. Thanks to my magnificent athleticism and perfect sense of balance, I didn't break my neck. An elderly woman eyewitness, thrilled at the bit of drama, hissed: It's terrible the way they let their dogs dirty the street.
Yes, dogs are getting a bad press of late, with numerous letters of complaint to editors and councillors jumping on the bandwagon. In Killiney, Co Dublin, they have provided a special loo for dogs.
In spite of my little accident, I must defend our canine friends. I still believe man's best friend is his dog. You can get very attached to an old mutt. We should be able to share our space with animals. When you see what humans have done to this planet in recent years, it quickly puts the whole situation into perspective. They say you can pick up all sorts of diseases from animals. They blame animals for everything. I'm still trying to find out who gave me that monumental dose of the flu last January.
Exhuming Checkers
Even Richard Nixon, who had no friends when he died in disgrace, always had the loyalty of his cocker spaniel Checkers. Some weeks ago it was decided that Checkers was to be humed from a New York cemetery and reburied near the former president and his wife.
Two years ago, an "Animal VC", which was awarded to an Alsatian who flew with his master in a World War II bomber and who saved people buried alive in wartime rubble, sold for £18,000 at Sotheby's. The Dickin Medal, one of only 53 awarded, was bought by the businessman and conservationist Gary Manley, who intends using it to raise money for the Born Free Foundation animal charity.
I knew a man who adored his alsatian, Brutus. They were inseparable and used to go for long walks together. He told me the dog kept him fit. He used to walk to the village every morning with the big animal shuffling along beside him. He would buy his Irish Times and put it in the dog's mouth; then the proud hound would bring it home for him.
That worked well until the newspaper strike in the mid1960s. My friend was distressed because he knew Brutus would be disappointed if he did not perform his daily trick. He could not break the dog's heart. So for the duration of the strike he would, conspiratorially, hide an old Irish Times under his coat, slip it out in the shop and give it to the dog to bring home. After all, Brutus couldn't very well read the date on the paper or distinguish whether the various stories were topical or not.
Last walk together
I remember another case where a man literally - as it transpired - laid down his life for his dog. This man had a number of heart attacks. One cold, dark night I was coming home late from the cinema and there he was, walking his little Scottie dog. I still have a picture of the two of them in my mind. I told him that he shouldn't be out on such a night, especially when he was convalescing from a heart attack. "Ah, I'm just going to the end of the road," he laughed, almost apologetically. "The dog hasn't had any exercise lately and he is fretting badly. I haven't been out all day myself, so we both need a bit of fresh air."
I went home and forgot about it. The next morning I heard the old man had died after returning from his stroll. Maybe if he had taken my advice he might have lived a little longer?
The dog lived for another two years, but he got very few walks after that. The widow was not the walking type.
I have always had a dog around the place: golden labradors are my favourite breed. They are attractive and have a nice temperament. Blind people use them as guide dogs. I can understand why. They are also very loyal. I usually get them as pups. The only one I didn't get as a pup ended up causing me acute embarrassment.
Swimming with Max
He was a big animal and we would walk miles along the beach every morning. (By the way just in case you are wondering - I'm an evening worker, not a man of leisure.) He would dive into the big foamy waves, no matter how high, and flounder around. He just loved the water. He was the nearest thing to a fish you could get. If I didn't give him plenty of time for his swim he would refuse to get back into the car. I couldn't wait for the summer to arrive so I could go out swimming with him.
The summer eventually came and I swam out. Sure enough, Max followed and we had great fun together. The people on the beach were quite entertained by the spectacle. I was delighted with his company. I then turned over on my back and began to float. Immediately, Max swam over and put an enormous paw on my chest, sort of asking me how I was? Unfortunately, the big nails on his paw cut me and I got a shock. I swung my fist at him and told him to feck off or something like that ... Unfortunately, he also got a fright and snapped his formidable teeth into my wrist.
There was blood all over the place. It was a deep wound. I was deeply shocked. I thought he would savage me. It was like being attacked by an alligator out there in ten feet of water. I managed to calm him down, got to the beach with blood running down my hand, used a towel as a tourniquet and rushed to the doctor's surgery. He put a few stitches in the wound.
The problem was that the dog had apparently had a bad time in its early years and took it out on me when I chastised him.
It was literally a case of biting the hand that fed him.