Real life | 25 February 2012

We few, we happy few. South London-based working cocker spaniel owners, I mean.

We meet up on Tooting Common most days to exchange tips for cocker crisis management. The dogs play together as we have our group therapy sessions. Cydney’s best friends are Betsy and Mable, both black with white bibs like her, and then there’s Rusty the roan, who is the veteran of the bunch.

These animals are not indigenous to south London, but then who is? At least mine gets to go to the country every other day where she flushes stray partridge to her heart’s content.

She has learnt to trot alongside the horse and once a fortnight we go to Long John the spaniel trainer for gundog classes.

But she has to put up with a bit of city life as I have not yet been able to mastermind my move to the country on a permanent basis.

She’s not happy about this. She hates traffic and looks askance at cars speeding on residential roads. She loathes walking in a straight line on pavements.

I once took her to Clapham and she was so disgusted she sat down in a shop doorway and refused to move. I had to carry her home.

She refuses point-blank to leave the house after dark. When I try to encourage her out of the door, she looks at me as if to say, ‘I’m not getting mugged by a slobbering great bull mastiff that’s been hung by its jaw from a tree. And look at that stinking great fox by the wheelie bin. Is someone going to put a bullet through its head or am I expected to take it on myself?’

But her pain is nothing compared with the rest of the south London working cocker community.