So picture the scene, then. Saturday night we went en famille to see our new greyhound race (naw, not Bertie - he’s too flabby). Well, dearest reader, he shot out of the traps like a little man possessed and led by at least a length all the way round to within 50 yards of the finish (and, coincidentally, about 50 yards from where we were all standing). I shouted and jumped around so much that my glasses fell off and smashed (I know, bummer) and we were all leaping about, confident in certain victory, when all of a sudden he seemed to run out of puff and started to slow down, whereupon the 2nd and 3rd dog seized their chance and trounced him to the line.

There were wobbly bottom lips and deflated looks all round. Worse, the winning owner was awarded a trophy. A trophy! Still, we got to give him a quick cuddle before he went home with our lovely trainer. It was patently obvious from his general wagginess and happy demeanour (the dog, not the trainer) that he didn’t give a poo that he’d lost. I watched as #2 knelt down beside him and scratched a floppy ear: ‘don’t worry’, he whispered quietly, ‘we still love you’. Awwww.

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