Puppy love!

I've inadvertantly, and a little reluctantly, become a dog owner. Spot, pictured above, unimaginatively named by my kids, turned up at the front door one evening when her previous owners were looking for someone who would take her off their hands. I should have known then not to bother, but as I tried to shove the kids back indoors and ignore their pleadings, the pup pounced into my arms and got licking. Well, I caved in, and now I don't know whether to regret it or take it on board and embrace it.

Suddenly, as well as becoming proficient in poop-scooping, de-worming, and dashing down six floors, dog in arms, to get her outdoors in time for a pee, I've unwittingly joined those hoards of people who walk aimlessly round and round Harbour Views with furry friends attached to the ends of leads, in an attempt to prevent soiling of floor tiles . I trudge about unwillingly, wishing I was still in bed, while these dedicated folk seem to love everything about their pooches.

What I have noticed is, well, that I notice dog poo. And there's loads of it in Gib. So, I wonder, if all the dog owners I encounter at unsocial hours, pounding their pavements with pooches in tow, all pick up their dog's effluence, something I've gratefully observed, how come there's so many turds trailing on the pavements from here to the border and back? Dirty dogs I'm not keen on, but dirty dog owners, who leave the mess to pass on diseases to kids and breed maggots, cockroaches and goodness-knows-what else, are totally unacceptable. When I had to wash some off Spot's paws the other day - not hers, but another mutt's she had accidentally trodden on - I thought that a system of by-laws and fining would help, but most effective would be making the guilty owners bath in the stuff. Then maybe they'd learn.

And talking of animals, I witnessed the catching of a mangy old cat while I enjoyed breakfast at the Piazza yesterday morning. I can see why my Dad enjoyed hanging around gossiping with the other Grumpy Old Men who congregate on a bench and mull over one shared copy of the Gibraltar Chronicle. "El Martillo", he always called it, the old name the Piazza was known by. Just as even now, people my age call it the "Piazza" when officially it is Sir John Mackintosh Square.

There I sat, watching the crowds scuttle by, sipping strong coffee and dipping churros in a little mountain of sugar in my saucer, when I caught sight of a man wielding a cage and suddenly bending over and stuffing a cat into it. Seconds only. Like greased lightning. And off ,they rattled in an old van, I hope to the GSPCA, but alarmingly taking the one-way road towards the kebab shops. I wondered if this gifted cat-catcher could also be persuaded to deal with the pigeons, which are far more disease-ridden and pestilential than cats, and don't catch rats. But then, no "palomos", and no government, from what I understand from the Grumpy Old Men.