CLAUDIA CONNELL: Dull ‘dog mummies’ are worse than baby bores

Before I’ve even had a chance to open the restaurant menu, Kelly is off on her tedious brag-a-thon.

She’s telling me how Maisie is the cleverest in her class, the best there’s ever been according to the teacher and way ahead of others her age. She’s not only intelligent, she’s also super confident, obedient and makes friends easily.

Then the pictures come out. ‘Isn’t she beautiful? Look at those eyes!’ trills Kelly in a state of besotted rapture. ‘Don’t you wish you had hair as thick and shiny as her?’

I tell you what I do wish, Kelly: that you’d just shut up, let me enjoy my cocktail and stop boring me rigid with tales of how marvellous your ‘baby’ Maisie is.

Not an actual human baby, you understand – a ‘fur baby’. Kelly’s three children have long flown the nest, and Maisie is the springer spaniel she bought to fill the void (although I swear she never went on about her kids as much as she does her mutt). Her Instagram page now proudly proclaims she is a ‘dog mummy’.

Kelly is already doing a ‘countdown’ to Maisie’s first birthday in August. What a shame I’ve plans to stay home and stare at the wall rather than join all the other dogs and dog mummies for the big celebration. I haven’t yet recovered from the hysteria of Christmas when Kelly spent a fortune on clothes, toys and treats for Maisie and then fretted over her purchases.

‘I thought this jumper would keep her warm on walks but now I’m worried it will be too tight because she’s growing so fast. Do you think she’ll like it?’ she asked me.

It’s a dog, Kelly, they’re not generally known for their critical thinking.

In the six decades I’ve been around, it seems dogs have gone from being loved but practical pets to acquiring the same status as any other (human) member of the family. Their birthdays are celebrated, they get their own Christmas stocking, they eat out and holiday with the family. Their first haircut and toilet training progress gets documented on social media.

What I’m about to say is usually greeted with the reaction you might expect had I confessed to firebombing an orphanage, but I’ll say it anyway… I don’t like dogs.

I realise in some people’s eyes that’s a huge red flag. They’ll say they could never trust someone who doesn’t adore canines. But, oh well, I can live with that.

My feelings towards dogs are probably heavily influenced by the time I was attacked by a Doberman while jogging in a London park. The huge beast ran at me, knocked me over and then pinned me to the ground. Instead of being full of apologies, the owner blamed me – apparently my screams and attempts to escape made the dog think it was a game. Silly me, I should have just remained still and allowed myself to be mauled.

That was 15 years ago and, today, my local park in Brighton is overrun with dogs, not to mention those delightful little plastic bags filled with poo that seem to hang from every tree branch. Why do people do that?

They don’t seem to have one dog anymore, either – they have two or three, often acquired to keep each other company. What’s more, if you live in a particularly middle-class area, you’ll be forgiven for thinking that the only available dogs in the world are some kind of poo/doodle cross.

They’re like the grey squirrels of the dog world – they’ve outbred and seen off all the other kinds. The only difference, of course, is that they now change hands for as much as £3,000.

It’s not just that I don’t like being savaged by dogs in public places. Even when they’re not attacking me they still smell, drool and shed fur everywhere. But mostly I resent how non-dog owners like me are expected to embrace them in my everyday life and indulge other people’s obsessions.

There’s a pub nearby that does a fantastic Sunday roast but I no longer go because, frankly, it’s more dog-friendly than people-friendly. The dining room is overrun with hounds who appear at your table scavenging for food the minute the roast beef arrives.

At this point I should add that I don’t like cats much, either, but at least cats aren’t endlessly needy. Cat owners don’t take their moggies to pubs, restaurants and shops or sulk when you say you don’t want them in your house.

My visitors know that any invitation extends to them only and not their pets. One friend texted ‘I don’t think I can leave Albert for more than an hour, he gets anxious’ when I invited her over for dinner. No doubt I was meant to say her greyhound was welcome, too, but instead I replied: ‘Never mind, another time.’

At least at my house guests know they can eat their meal without having their feet licked under the table by an untrained pet – as happened to me once, courtesy of Lucy the labradoodle who slobbered enthusiastically over my sandal-clad feet. I found it revolting, the hostess thought it was cute and hilarious.

‘Any chance you could put her outside while we eat?’ I asked. From the appalled expressions, I wondered whether I’d accidentally asked if they could have Lucy re-homed.

In the end she was placed in the garden for all of ten minutes, but had to be let back in after whining and howling at the door.

When did the comfort of dogs come before that of guests? Perhaps it was when we started giving them human names. Gone are the days when dogs were called Rover, Patch and Scamp.

The only reason I agreed to go to the house was because this particular friend always cuts short a night out to get back for Lucy’s bedtime. I once joked ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you read her a story’ and she told me not to be so silly, before admitting that, actually, she does sing to her. She also kisses her on the mouth, lets her sleep on her bed and paid a small fortune to have her portrait painted.

Most amusing of all is that this friend was a particularly strict parent who never indulged her children. An advocate of ‘controlled crying’, she once told me she’d left her baby to bawl for two hours at night. I remember thinking at the time how cruel that sounded. But fast forward 25 years and this reinvented dog mummy had her expensive marble floor tiles replaced because she was worried they were too cold and slippery for Lucy’s paws.

If somebody had told me 30 years ago that, in the future, I would be competing for my friends’ time and company with a bunch of spoilt spaniels and uptight terriers, I’m not sure I’d have believed them.

I’ve met my share of baby bores but they had nothing on this new breed of doggie dullards.

There are now 13 million dogs in the UK and I’m sure there will come a day when us non-owners (and our hair- and odour-free homes) are in the minority.

In the meantime, though, I’ll be standing my ground as a voice of sanity in a world full of demented dog lovers.

Names, dogs’ names and breeds have been changed