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maggoty maturity? But we are all so much more fortunate than our abandoned brothers and sisters.
    We are, of course, all pedigree and, yes, I do take pride in the fifteen Field Champions I count amongmy great-great-grandparents; my mother, Madeline of Meadowlea (her Kennel Club name), was born of the champion Springer Steadroc Sker and Miss Tickle, no less. But now that my social conscience has been pricked, I wonder a little about this obsession with breeding. There is a Battersea regular whose mistress introduces him, with a flamboyant French flourish, as a ‘Boar-hunting Grand Basset Griffon Vendéen’; he is a nice enough fellow, but how many boars are there in Battersea? And my Master recently brought news to dinner of a Labour peer buying a ‘Madagascan Coton de Tuléar’. Can we really tolerate such frivolity on the Left?
    All sorts of distressing news drifts down from the kitchen table: thousands of dogs have been clubbed to death in China because of a rabies scare, and a Danish MP wants to cull every one of his country’s mongrels to eliminate aggressive genes from the pool. How can the world beyond this comfortable kitchen be such a cruel place? There was a time when we could look down on these brute foreigners and their dog-phobic ways, but I wonder if that is really still so?
    Perhaps I should drop the ‘English’ from my name and become simply a ‘Springer Spaniel’.
    I shall not often have a public voice of this kind. May I add a personal message? I understand from myMaster that my sister Mielie is not well, having eaten a plate of sausages with the cocktail sticks still attached; I wish her a full recovery.

3
    The Humanness of Dogs
    A sixth sense, or just howling at the moon?
    3 October 2009
    I HAVE RECEIVED AN affecting letter from a reader, which I quote, minus a couple of identifying details, with his permission.
    In 1984 my first wife was dying in hospital, and my son and I took it in turns to spend time with her. Our dog, a super Welsh Springer Spaniel, would not sleep in the kitchen while she was away, he insisted on sleeping in either my bedroom or my son’s. My wife died when I was at the hospital. At 3.30 a.m., Iphoned my son. ‘I know Mum died at three o’clock,’ he said. ‘Basil got up and howled.’ It was the only time in his fourteen years he did so.
    My correspondent wondered whether other readers might offer stories of canine ‘sixth sense’.
    I take Hamlet’s view: ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth,’ he tells his rationalist friend Horatio after the Ghost appears, ‘than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ An openness to such stories seems saner than a Dawkins-esque broadside against science-denying sentimentality. But researching the relevant literature has tilted me in the Dawkins direction: this story is from an American collection called
Angel Dogs
.
    The narrator, a retired marine, is walking his Jack Russell in a cemetery. I am afraid he has called the dog Corporal J.R. and given him his service number, USMC 21264539. We soon know that he might be a tiresome walking companion: ‘I always carry water, collapsible water bowl for J.R., J.R.’s first aid kit, a Swiss Army knife, a snack for both of us, my bird identification manual and my trusty Nikon 7x5 binoculars.’
    J.R. suddenly begins digging frantically, and our hero notices that the dog is uncovering a military grave. He helps shift the debris and … ‘My heart pounded as I read the inscription: “Jack A Russell,Texas, Cpl, Signals Corps, 1928–1952”.’ Our man describes how ‘Corporal J.R. laid his head on the headstone of Corporal Jack Russell, a soldier with his own name who was killed in the Korean War,’ and declares, ‘I continue to marvel how a little dog paid honour and respect by bringing new meaning to the belief that no soldier should ever be forgotten.’
    There is also