So, on Friday morning, Gail and I went in search of doggy treats (hooray!) We drove to Netherfield, a small community near where Human Granny lives.
Netherfield was built mainly to house railway workers back in the 19th century.
These days it is, let's say, Staffie not golden retriever territory. Amidst the terraced cottages, we sniffed out an eclectic selection of independent businesses.
Eventually we found the pet shop; a modest establishment, with noisy caged birds more prominent than goods for the canine palate.
The place was empty and Gail browsed the (frustratingly out of reach) selection of bones, pigs ears, dried tripe, chicken feet etc. undisturbed for a minute or two.
Then a man appears from the back and, within seconds, is all over me like a rash.
"A wire-haired fox terrier! You don't see so many of them these days. At least not round these parts. There's a fair few in Lincolnshire. What's this one's name? Bertie? What a fine specimen he is. His coat looks great, I hate to see them all shorn close. My grandfather used to breed fox terriers just down the road from here. He won loads of trophies at Crufts and all. Those dogs wanted for nothing. He took them out every morning for an hour's run round Colwick Woods, then back to heated kennels each with a large enclosure and treats galore. Oh and the time he spent grooming them for the shows".
He pauses for breath and to caress my tail. He notes the slight kink in the middle and asks if it was damaged when I was a pup.
"Of course you're not allowed to dock the tails any more. Grandfather used to do it himself with his bare teeth."
The pet shop man then demonstrates the action, thankfully putting his fingers and not my tail in his mouth.
"Of course my dad always told him not to but there was no telling Grandfather…."
With disturbing enthusiasm, he repeats the demonstration several times, perhaps to indicate the docking of a large litter.
At this point I notice that Gail has gone ever so slightly pale and seeks to change the subject to her intended purchase of pigs ears and a rawhide bone.
To be honest I was, for the first time in my life, not entirely sorry to exit a pet shop.