All these lockdown puppies come at a price

‘Book H in for a colonoscopy at a private clinic,’ begins one entry in Sasha Swire’s enjoyable diaries about her husband (which she should have called What Hugo Did During Term-Time.) She accompanies him to his appointment — whether for juicy material or moral support, we are not told — and relates how the bored consultant bangs on in detail, not about her hubby’s bum, but about the time his pointer swallowed a budgie. ‘As for their fees, simply extortionate!’ the expensive consultant whines in conclusion of a ‘violent diatribe’ against our world-beating veterinarian profession. At this flagrant pot and kettling, Lady Swire flares up: ‘It’s a racket — not unlike your game.’ At last, a point upon which we can surely all agree (‘Slasher’ Swire, the bottom specialist, you and I).

Just before lockdown we got a two-month-old cockapoo, a turbo-charged Hamleys soft toy with floppy ears that dangled into her water bowl when her little pink tongue lapped. It was love at first sight. We called her Ziggy, like so many dogs these days. We didn’t insure her, even though she cost £1,250. My last dog, Coco, changed hands for a grubby £20 note at a farm gate on Exmoor. I didn’t bother with insurance and she never had a day’s illness or accident apart from the time her tail temporarily went crook after swimming in the icy Exe (a distressing condition called ‘broken wag’). I thought I would do pay-as-you-go for her replacement.

What a fool I was. In June I ran Ziggy over, or, as I sobbed to my wailing grown-up children: ‘She ran under the wheels of my car!’ A broken pelvis. No action required except four weeks of crate rest — but the X-rays, treatment, and overnight stay at the vet in Minehead came to more than £800.