When my mother died last year, her small 13-year-old sheltie, Nutty, came to live with us in our London flat. I knew it would be difficult to keep a dog in town, but it was a terrible shock to discover how anti-dog the city has become.
While taking him out and about on my daily rounds, I am often booted out of shops. In the bank, the chemist, most boutiques, the post office and department stores, it is No to Nutty. Even in our local garden square, dogs are forbidden, even if I have a poop-a-scoop and Nutty’s on a lead.
I was recently refused entry to a bus, which I now know is illegal although I wasn’t sure enough of my ground to complain. It’s ridiculous: Nutty is far smaller and less of an obstacle than a child’s buggy. Next time I shall rechristen him Rosa Parks and refuse to budge.
The only way to have a pet dog in the city guilt-free is to be blind — although a blind friend reports several instances of being refused entry to shops.
Even Peter Jones, once famous for its pro-dog policy, has caved in to cynophobes, and now refuses dogs entry (yes, the mothership, who would have thought it?)
The routine in shops is always the same. When Nutty and I make our apologetic entry, a dead-eyed jobsworth will shuffle up as fast as his flat feet allow him, announcing smugly, ‘No dogs in here!’ ‘Why not?’ I will inquire. ‘Nothing to do with me. It’s the rules,’ is the blank response. My, the pleasure these people get from saying no.
Friends tell me harrowing tales. Bettina, from animal-loving Switzerland, owns an elderly Jack Russell. The Jack Russell doesn’t bark or make a mess, but neighbours in her block of flats secretly signed a petition to insist her dog is removed. ‘Why do Londoners hate dogs so much?’ she cries.
Yesterday I was taking a short cut through a scruffy car park while a grim-looking old man sat on a wall watching me. ‘You can’t bring a dog in ’ere!’ he barked.
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Cos dogs crap and shit everywhere.’
‘But I have my poop-a-scoop!’
He glowered and turned away.
Even worse, when elderly people go into sheltered accommodation they must leave their beloved pets behind. I am about to adopt another sheltie, a nine-year-old whose retired owner has been forced into this sort of housing. I will do my best to give the old chap a wonderful life, but who are the creeps who make these rules?
Dogs serve humans in so many ways. They give their lives on battlefield; provide a lifeline for the blind and for those with disabilities, and offer love and companionship without recourse. And yet institutions and individuals deny them entry, meaning they must languish alone at home, agony for such pack-orientated, loving creatures.
In the past we understood the debt we owe them. Think of the literary paeans to dog-kind: Jock of the Bushveld, White Fang, Greyfriars Bobby. Yet these days, in London, owning a dog is practically a criminal offence.
On the bright side, I am saving myself a fortune as I rarely go shopping. I am fitter and healthier and, as restaurants are a no-no, we eat out in our local, which like many pubs is dog-friendly but also cheaper and nicer. I have also developed a cunning ploy to outwit the cynophobes. When accosted by a shopfloor jobsworth I smile and announce confidently, ‘But he’s a hearing dog.’ This works surprisingly well. Baffled shop assistants will usually back off apologetically, mumbling ‘Oh that’s quite all right’, too feeble to admit they haven’t the foggiest notion of what a hearing dog is. I don’t know either, but no one ever questions it, even though it should be quite clear, from the fact that we’re having the conversation in the first place, that I can hear perfectly well. And, entre nous, Nutty is as deaf as a post.
I am also having a ‘hi-viz’ fluorescent jacket made up for Nutty, which should give him an official appearance. I may also invest in a white stick and black glasses as a back-up.