THERE are good and conscientious owners of dogs. I see some regularly with animals under control, on or off a lead. Then there are the other 95% whose dog can do no wrong as it digs up a friend's young vegetables, knocks over a toddler, bursts a youngster's football, chases a friend's cat round its own living room or allows a friend into the house then threatens when they try to leave.
The owners smile indulgently. "He's only playing," or "Don't move and he'll stop" or "Ah… he likes you."
Familiar? They should be, because we all know people we thought were normal until we met their dog. Why the wilful blind spot? Why the cogniti
ve dissonance? Why, in spite of a recent resolution not to consider violence the answer, is there never a chunk of driftwood when you need it?
That last thought occurred walking along a beach last week when I saw a biggish dog digging, pausing to glare at anyone within 30 yards. That soon included me and I didn't like the look. With good reason, as it raced across barking and baring its teeth.
I wasn't exactly afraid – fist-clenching apprehensive, yes – because I grew up with working collies all called as far as I could tell "liedoonyoudonnertbugger". They could be snappy.
I've also owned three. As a child I inherited Prim, runt of the litter, a tubby little Shetland collie who spent her life lazing about avoiding trouble. I've never agreed with the theory that owners resemble their pets.
The second was Sam, a non-stop action Jack Russell terrier, full of energy and mischief. I've always agreed with the theory that dogs come to resemble their owners.
When Sam was killed by a car I gave up on dogs. Until, against all evidence, experience and reason, 10 years later I decided to train a young collie. Within days I was confirmed as the sort of hapless dog owner who now drives me crazy, useless at giving orders, worse at trying to enforce them.
The crunch came after an attempt to round up sheep had Sam 2 eventually return from stampeding cattle two fields away. Our version of One Man And His Dog was a kneel-down, hand on collar, eyeball-to-eyeball, discussion of his shortcomings. When you're in that position it's amazing how long it can take the local riding school to tiphoof past.
As the dog raced towards me on the beach last week I remembered an encounter a few years ago with a Doberman rushing from a side alley barking like the Hound of the Baskervilles. Sometimes, mercifully, I act first and think later. I gave a visceral roar, the dog stopped, I roared again and it turned tail.
Last week I had time to think as the dog raced round me thrice in decreasing circles while its owner called feebly. Plan A was to clobber it with my rucksack. Plan B to sue for any injury. As it happened Plan C, to raise a fist and snarl low and viciously, worked.
It backed off and ran away. What would chasing the owner lead to? A shouting match? The dog getting back into the action? Would she learn anything? Deciding instead to enrol for anger-management classes to deal with life's petty annoyances, I walked on.
The full article contains 570 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
