No pets here

I find photos of dogs, cats and other 'aw' inducing subjects (Anne Geddes'
baby photos, for example) generally repulsive. But every now and then, a photo such as that of Lapsed Cannibal's featuring an adoring beagle will hit me with its Snoopy factor and I end up silently oohing and ahhing with the rest of the sentimental populace. The constant moving around the world that has been the pattern of my life so far has never been conducive to having a pet.

As a small child I fantasised a great deal about how wonderful it would be to have a pet. I read all the articles I could find on dog training, horse grooming and cats. And budgies. And fish. And don't forget esio trots. As an adult, I would frequently walk around Hampstead Heath with my flatmate, and we used to joke about our lack of those two essentials for every woman of a certain age strolling around the heath - a pet and a pram. "Can't we rent them out for a day, just so we would fit in?", we wondered. It was the idea of having an intelligent golden retriever lolloping by my side, not the pram, that sounded so comforting and warm. I would buy Rover (of course, it had to be called Rover, not Reginald) loads of dog biscuits and we would go grocery shopping together on top of our walks on the heath - we would be the ultimate Pedigree advertisement.

Of course, these are all mere fantasies. For one thing, I am probably allergic to something carried by these animals, or indeed the animals themselves. I am intolerably lazy at picking up after myself: how on earth would I manage the needs of another being? (M. is remarkably tidy - I am the messy one). Large dogs are scary - I always tense around the bigger breeds, especially bulldogs and German shepherds. Even the cutest kittens like to flex their claws way too often. Fish smell. And budgies nip you with their beaks if you come too close...