Pet hates.

As Bonfire Night drew near earlier this week, the RSPCA suggested drugging our doggies with a customised air freshener so they wouldn’t die of a heart attack when a rocket went off. The chemical it contained, called the Dog Appeasing Pheromone is intended to minimise distress naturally. Has pet care become a little ludicrous in this land? In fact, why do we even have pets?

When I was about 10, I decided I wanted to construct a snail farm. I rummaged around in the shrubbery and found a few prize specimens of this land-bound mollusc, painted their shells with pink or blue nail varnish – depending on whether I decided they were girls or boys – and made them a little house. The leader of the pack was called Barney. I then proceeded to try to stick them together, slimy underside to slimy underside in order to produce mini snails. Maybe not a totally accurate lesson on reproduction, I was nevertheless entertained for hours.

The idea behind having a pet is that children learn how to care for something, discover the responsibility of feeding it and taking it for walks and, most importantly of all, the value of loving it. Now my sister and I definitely loved our guinea pigs. Although when it was dark and cold, there were “humungous” spiders lurked in the nooks and crannies of Daffodil Den, sometimes mum was forced to take the torch and clean the smelly little monsters out herself. But we still loved them unconditionally.

But even I stand boggle-eyed and slap-jawed at the apparent lunacy of Leona Helmsley who in August left her pampered pooch $12 million. Aptly named Trouble, I can imagine the mollycoddled canine being the cause of considerable controversy amongst the billionaire’s two pretty peeved grandchildren.

The Spaniards are not alone in thinking, why keep a fluffy rabbit in a cage to get fat when you can let it run around the fields, shoot it and dish it up? If fact, the South-Americans would rather roll a guinea-pig up in some clay and pop it in the middle of the bonfire than have to shovel up its poop.

But pets are fun. I distinctly remember walking into the conservatory one morning to find, to my utter delight, two prickly little hedgehog scampering and defecating all over the lino. My dad had found them on the pavement the night before. He thought that the little pin cushions and their fleas would provide a pleasant surprise come breakfast time. The inevitable decision to release them back in to the wild became a momentous and ceremonial affair later in the day.

A childhood buddy reminded me only recently of my father’s seemingly harmless but at the time truly terrifying bedtime stories. He warned us that we had to look after our menagerie of furry friends or the gypsies would come in the dead of night, fling them onto the back of their horse and cart and carry them off for supper. Now I see what he was trying to do. At the time, my friend spent sleepless nights running up and down the stairs checking that Sugar Lump and Demerara were still safely locked up.

Also, learning to play with animals instead of sitting in front of a television screen is crucial for a child’s personal development. At home, we used to collect juicy pink worms and teeny tickly woodlice in plastic cups when my parents were gardening to study them scrupulously and tirelessly. My sister once had a family of stick insects which escaped and multiplied in the laundry basket. I remember wiling away the hours making playgrounds for the hamsters. Sitting on a chair lift, miles up in the Alps one Christmas, we even went so far as to meticulously plan their wedding ceremony. The speeches, the songs and the seating plan. Only to come back and find that Kei-Kei had selfishly spoilt the party by popping her furry little clogs during our absence.

And this brings me to a final reason for having pets. It helps children to cope with loss. My bottom lip still trembles uncontrollably when I think about the poor, blighted little newt I took into school in a glass tank that somehow managed to escape over the half term holiday. He made it half way to freedom up the main corridor before gulping its last little breath and croaking on the carpet tiles, a shrivelled up twiglet.

So come on folks, love them or hate them, we need pets. The world would be a sadder place without Klonky and Minnie, Tiddles and Cookie. And we don’t need Blue Peter to choose the names for us either.