Minnie’s Musings

Having been terrified of dogs as a child (a function of growing up in London and a particularly neglected and fearsome dog at the bottom of the road who cornered me on my way to primary school before a kid from the council flats opposite took my hand and led me away) I have only gotten over my fear by living in a semi-rural area where dogs get regular and significant exercise and appear in pubs.

I am now a complete convert. This is a good thing as dogs absolutely love me. Evidenced by the number of them who goose me when saying hello. I used to walk a particularly pretty miniature schnauzer who I managed to leave outside a shop and had to race back to collect. I think I confessed…

Anyway Best Beloved had tried to get a rescue dog as a family pet for our 25th anniversary. We both agreed long ago that we wanted a mongrel rather than a breed and I was not keen on the new fangled crosses (cockerpoos and so on). We are both aware that dogs are a big commitment, can chew your furniture and favourite shoes and are require kenneling if you are away and have no one to dog-sit.

However Best Beloved was thwarted at every turn, mostly because we already have cat. And possibly that we weren’t immediately inclined to contribute a monthly direct debit (certainly not until we had balanced the costs of keeping said dog and established that charitable donations were feasible). But also by the very idea that we were not prepared to take out a second mortgage’s worth of pet insurance.

While I do think pet insurance is important for dogs as they are expensive beasties, I can’t help feeling it is a bit of a racket. And that veterinary medicine is turning into a bit of a racket altogether. I say this because I have heard veterinary staff talk about ‘pup’ as mid-wives talk about ‘baby’ while at the same time recommending a myriad of costly treatments and procedures (which mid-wives do not do) that are only optional if you have the hardest of hearts. Which personally, I do.

Our longest surviving cat came to us from (emigrating) owners who provided all sorts of certificates for vaccines, treatments and teeth cleaning. I put these in a drawer and forgot about them. Florence lived to the ripe old age of 19. I rest my case.