It used to be very simple.
If you lived in “the country” (that is, “not London”), you had a dog. If you lived in London, it was considered almost cruel to keep a dog.
As we Brits prefer animals to people, and love our pets far, far more than we do members of our own families, this was the basic operating principle of humane pet ownership.
There were honorable exceptions to this tradition. You could have dogs in London if you were the Queen (her corgis have the freedom of the Buckingham Palace grounds); if you lived in Downing Street (First Fiancée Carrie Symonds’s terrier, Dilyn, tears around the large garden with Chancellor Rishi Sunak’s little girls); or dwelt on the edge of somewhere such as Richmond Park, a 2,500-acre nature reserve, like Lady Annabel Goldsmith.
Lady Annabel lives in Georgian splendor in Ormeley Lodge, where her lush landscaped grounds abut Ham Common. She sends an annual Christmas card with all her dozens of family dogs first, on one side, and then the grandchildren on the other.
If you lived in “the country” (that is, “not London”), you had a dog. If you lived in London, it was considered almost cruel to keep a dog.
If you couldn’t command such a rus-in-urbe spread for your four-legged friends—and let’s face it, almost all of us can’t—it was doable to have a dog if you lived near one of the eight Royal Parks, or some other large, open green space, for twice-a-day walkies.
To summarize: most people who live in the country have dogs—it’s almost a law—but in town, only one in a dozen households does, if that. This is why when I see someone in the country off the beaten track, and without at least one dog, I almost fear for my life. What are they doing in this hidden lane without a dog? They must be an ax murderer or, at the very least, the local flasher. (Unless the stranger is in full rambler rig of rustling cagoule, bobble hat, hiking boots, etc., etc.)
The coronavirus of 2020 changed all that. Now the world and his wife have a dog to help them through our endless British lockdowns. Ownership went up by a million or so, to the extent that the Dog’s Trust, formerly known as the National Canine Defence League, changed its famous slogan, “A dog is for life, not just for Christmas,” to “A dog is for life, not just for lockdown.” The BBC launched a dog-grooming, prime-time reality show called Pooch Perfect, hosted by award-winning actress Sheridan Smith (owner of a mere six dogs), to surf the wave of the pandemic-puppy craze that has swept the nation.
All this is fine for the landed gentry. Television presenter Jeremy Clarkson, who has moved full-time to the Cotswolds and become a farmer, says he’s looking for a chocolate-Labrador puppy; the architect John Pawson (333,000 followers on Instagram) and his wife, Catherine, have recently debuted their melting new puppy, Lochie (short for lockdown), at their honey-stone home in Oxfordshire; and press reports claim the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge have chosen the replacement for the late, lamented Lupo.
Yes, the Cambridge family has expanded to include a bitch from one of James Middleton’s latest litters. (James and his chic French fiancée, Alizée, have six spaniels plus a golden retriever named Mabel. Middleton has even launched a “well-being” business for dogs called Ella & Co., which is very on-trend.)
So far, so Instagrammable. But endless cute pictures don’t tell the real story. The spike in dog ownership is actually leading to what Archie Bland, a London-based journalist, called a “poodemic” in The Guardian, with the rise in poop growing “excrementally.” Nationwide, a lobbying group called DogFoul.org (slogan, “We Watch, You Pay”) is keeping a dashboard across the country. Supporters on Facebook declare their advocacy by going down the cold-case route so they can DNA the poop, match it to the offending dog, and thereby incriminate the owner.
Press reports claim the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge have chosen the replacement for the late, lamented Lupo.
London, with its density of people and pets, is the blackest black spot of all. (A chap called Jack Rees complained to DogFoul.org, “I’m in St John’s Wood and it’s like a Cambodian minefield in the street.”)
The origins of the canine crisis, unlike those of the slightly less angry Peloponnesian War, are easy to list. The increase in dogs. The rise in working from home. More time to walk dogs. No other recreation being legal in this third endless lockdown apart from walking or running, eating, and breathing.
The spike in dog ownership is actually leading to what Archie Bland, a London-based journalist, called a “poodemic.”
No surprise that the puppy pandemic is causing the most uncivil war here in the capital. “Idea for London dog owners,” tweeted Hugh Grant: “Instead of letting your dog dung on the pavement and then wiping it up leaving a big smear (or not at all) - encourage your dog to do it in your house. Preferably on your pillow.”
This makes me feel guilty. Even I succumbed last year and bought a pandemic puppy—a blonde scrumptious bundle of a cockapoo called Ziggy. (The two obligatory names for 2020 are Luna and Ziggy.) It is absolutely impossible being in London with her for all the reasons listed above. Hugh, I’m afraid, is right.
Dogs have to go to the country as the country is going to the dogs.
Rachel Johnson is a journalist and author. Her books include The Mummy Diaries, Notting Hell, and Rake’s Progress: My Political Midlife Crisis
