Is it my imagination or has the world gone mad on dogs? Every house nowadays seems to have at least one mongrel, if not two. As far as I’m concerned, one is too many. They tell me that one gets very attached to them and they become like children, children that never grow up. I already have one of those.

Anyway, there was a time when dogs were kept by farmers, hunters and fowlers – people who had a use for them.

In years gone by, households in the town might have a terrier to keep other furry friends at bay, but the only human being in the universe with a flock of poms dancing around her feet appeared to be the Queen of England. We didn’t mind that because we always thought the English were kind of odd, so it was only to be expected that their reigning monarch would be the queen of oddness.

Now we’re as bad as the lot of them, if not even worse, with our dog-loving. In this small settlement that is Killdicken, there are all kinds of canines, from Great Danes, St Bernards and Irish wolfhounds, to little farts of things that are no bigger than a rat and equally as ugly. Some can fit in a handbag.

In the evening, or as the Yanks would say, just before sundown, these mutts start yelpin’, howlin’, snappin’, barkin’ and wailing. I’m convinced that somewhere in their midst is a coyote; there’s certainly a howl of some kind that’s more at home in the prairies of America.

The evening song is bad enough, but the dawn chorus is worse. There’s some chance of sleeping through a million birds singing, but there isn’t a hope of getting a wink with 100 dogs clearing their throats to greet the day. To add to the bedlam, they’re often joined by humans shouting at them to shut up. Between howling dogs, swearing humans and the odd jackdaw, the mornings can be lively around here.

Worst of all, this canine proliferation has resulted in a carpet of dog scutter on the streets. Neither the dogs nor their owners have any shame about it. The owners will stand and chat to one another while their dogs wind themselves into spinal contortions as they relieve themselves on the public pathway.

The council has started to put up “pooper scooper” things with plastic bags for gathering the stuff, but I don’t know how anyone can do that. If I had a dog I’d shoot him before I’d pick up his droppings, even with the aid of a long-handled shovel.

I don’t expect I’ll ever need a dog, since I have Maurice. He’s house-trained, doesn’t bark and doesn’t chew the furniture. He goes for his own walkies and, like many a dog, he regularly forgets to come home.

Thankfully, he’s at that age now where the mating season means nothing to him and aside from an odd trip to Lisdoonvarna, he rarely goes looking for the type of diversion associated with the drive to procreate. In fact, I’d say he’s as docile as a bullock in that department. Madge McInerney is not convinced and says that no matter how auld the man is there’s always a spark under the bonnet and women forget that at their peril.

Lily Mac shares my aversion to dogs and is a great believer in the virtues of keeping a cat.

“A cat is as good as a lively older woman,” she says, “she’s completely independent. If you feed her, she’ll eat. And if you don’t, she’ll feed herself. When she’s in bad humour she’s capable of frightening the life out of creatures great and small, and she’d sleep on a bed of nails. A cat will come and go as she pleases, she’s low maintenance and high efficiency.”

Talking about low maintenance, my son is at the other end of that scale. He’s out in Lisnapookybawna, putting what I hope are the finishing touches to his second project essay, a piece of work that was supposed to be handed in at Easter.

I’m just about to drive out there to take him fresh laundry and supplies for the week. In fact, I’m late. I’ll finish this later. I have to run.

Went out to see Maurice. You won’t believe it, as I walked in the door with my arms full of laundry and food, I stepped on something that yelped. “Holy Mother of God,” says I, “what’s that?” Maurice was on his knees beside me at that stage holding this ball of wool with a nose and a pair of eyes.

“Isn’t he lovely,” says he, “he wandered in during the week. He’s a dote, I’m calling him Leo. Mother, meet Leo.”

“Leo,” says I, “meet Cruella De Ville.” CL