So argues frustrated dog owner Julia Stephenson, owner of Nutty, the loveliest dog in England

 

When my mother died last year her small 13-year-old sheltie, Nutty, came to live with us in our London flat. But although I knew it would be difficult to keep a dog in town, it was a terrible shock to discover how anti-dog the UK has become.

While taking him out and about on my daily rounds our entry is constantly blocked. In the bank, the chemist, boutiques, post office and department stores, it is No to Nutty. Even in our local garden square, dogs are forbidden, even though I am never without my poop-a-scoop.

It’s madness. To legally enjoy the company of my dog I must be blind, although a blind friend reports several instances of being refused entry when his guide dog is not allowed in.

Even the Peter Jones department store on Chelsea's Sloane Square, once famous for its pro-dog policy, has bowed down to the cynophobes. (Yes, the Mother Ship, who would have thought it?)

The routine 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 enquire. The excuses vary from `It’s the policy’ to `We are not insured for dogs’. My, the pleasure these people get from being able to say no.

However I have devised a cunning ploy that is working a treat.

When accosted, I smile and announce confidently, `but he’s a Hearing Dog’.

Nine out of 10 times, confronted by this official-sounding yet (let’s be honest) completely baffling assertion, the jobsworth will back off apologetically, usually mumbling,`Oh, that’s quite all right’.

These people love officialese and are too straight-jacketed by rules to admit they haven’t the foggiest notion of what a Hearing Dog is. I don’t know what it is either, but luckily hardly anyone ever asks me.

 

Please let me in!’ Waiting outside the Mother Ship

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Entre nous, Nutty is as deaf as a post, so to call him a Hearing Dog is pushing it a bit. And why I would need a Hearing Dog when it is quite obvious my hearing is fine has not been challenged.

Only in Marks and Spencers has my ploy been foiled. When the jobsworth challenged, `What’s an `earing dog when it’s at `ome then’, I mumbled something about being a diabetic and Nutty licking me when I fell into a faint. Not very plausible, but he caught me off the cuff. Unfortunately M&S is now a no-go zone and I am doomed to a drawer full of ancient saggy bras and greying knickers.

On the bright side, I am saving myself a fortune as I rarely go shopping. I am fitter and healthier as I spend more time in the park (when I can find one that allows dogs). If we want to eat out we go to our local pub which like many pubs is dog friendly. Unlike fancy restaurants we are served simple food without any posh restaurant palaver (waiting to be seated, silver salvers, sorbets between courses and other nuisances).

Recently Nutty was refused entry on a bus. Next time this happens I shall re-christen him Rosa Parks and Make A Stand. `My dog and I are not moving from this bus!’ I shall cry as gimlet-eyed London transport officials drag me off.

I refuse to be cowed. Only dog-friendly shops now receive my custom. (Motto: women with small dogs spend big money.)

I am also having a `high viz’ fluorescent jacket made up for Nutty, which should give him a vestige of official status and more access. These annoying jackets seem to be sprouting everywhere, conferring an air of spurious authority, which will I hope also work for my dog.

Friends tell me harrowing tales. Bettina, from animal-loving Switzerland, owns a quiet elderly Jack Russell. The neighbours at her block of flats secretly convened a petition insisting her dog be removed. `Why do the English hate dogs so much?’ she cries.

Even worse, when elderly people go into sheltered accommodation they cannot take their pets. Why on earth not? Who are the faceless bureaucrats who make these cruel rules? I am about to adopt a nine-year-old sheltie whose owners are forced to go into one of these places. He misses his owners dreadfully, as they must miss him, but I will do my best to give the old chap a wonderful life.

Only yesterday I was taking short cut through a scruffy car park on my way home. A grim looking old man was sitting on a wall. Glowering at me as I passed, he barked: `You can’t bring a dog in here!’

`Why not?’ I asked.

`Cos dogs crap and shit everywhere’.

`But I have a bag in my pocket!’

He glowered and turned away.

I now know how smokers feel. Like them, dogs and their owners are forbidden from entry into public places (even car parks!) and ostracised. Where has our tolerance gone?

In the past we understood the debt we owe to our canine friends. Think of the literary paeons to dog-kind: Jock of the Bushveld, White Fang, Greyfriars Bobby. Yet these days, in London, owning a dog is practically a criminal offence.

Dogs serve humans in so many ways. They give their life on battlefield, provide a lifeline for the blind, for those with disabilities, and offer love and companionship. And yet institutions and individuals deny them entry, meaning they must often languish alone at home, agony for such pack-orientated gregarious creatures.

The only time the anti-dog brigade want to see animals at all is when they are dead and on our plates. Doomed to a life in dark sheds in the countryside, the bond between animal and human is surely doomed. I am doing my bit, but it is an uphill battle and so far the jobsworths are winning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nutty Nutkin, `the loveliest dog in England’ waiting for his pint (of water) at the Coopers Arms.