My pedigree chum

The backlash has been brutal, unforgiving and, in common with the left’s reactions to so many things, almost hysterical in its hot-blooded fury. My crime? Starbucks shares? Casual racism? Advocating military action in North Korea? No, I have just bought a puppy, a pedigree puppy — and not just any pedigree, but an aristocratic-looking Cavalier King Charles spaniel — the apotheosis of canine privilege.

Here’s a sample of some of the more printable rants from north London friends and colleagues. It makes dispiriting reading. ‘That dog looks very posh… what’s wrong with a mongrel?’ ‘I’m shocked and disgusted…’ ‘Why didn’t you get a rescue dog… disgraceful… you are encouraging selective breeding…’. But I have bravely held my ground and I am not sending her back like some poor waif who has fallen foul of Brexit. Our puppy is relaxed and adorable, and has those trademark Cavalier ears and the come-and-cuddle-me eyes of a 17th-century courtesan. For me she is the perfect companion, a biddable lapdog, a low-maintenance bundle of easy pleasure.

Her only drawback is that, like many aristocrats from a highly selective bloodline, she is just that little bit thick: training is frankly a struggle and there is no hope of her ever appearing in a YouTube video riding a unicycle or playing Chopin on the piano. One expert who has monitored canine brainpower describes her breed’s IQ level more diplomatically —  Cavaliers, he says, are ‘of average intelligence’. For a dog, that is.

One might think that progressives would warm to her special-needs status. But when I proudly emailed out her pictures, I’d never anticipated the seething opprobrium. Colleagues and friends have accused me of abandoning my longstanding centre-left principles in favour of eugenics, arrivisme and trying to suck up to the ruling classes.