It's A Dog-Eat-Dog World

On animals in St Andrews

Tailend or Cromars? Both are s*** — but not to seagulls. Many a happy holidaymaker has had their trip to St Andrews mired by a seagull. From poor children having their ice creams stolen to adults having their battered sausage pilfered (even the odd sausage dog has gone missing when backs have been turned), many things have been unexpectedly snatched.

Now I’m no Bill Oddie, but I’m pretty sure there aren’t too many people out there who value seagulls all that much. Surely it is about time that Clay Pigeon were given their proverbial pen licenses and go around blasting the real McCoy. When the Open was on, they employed a raven to keep the gulls at bay, and I heard that there was not one single harbinger of theft to be seen for the entirety of the tournament. Why not afford ourselves the same luxury? Many a poor granny has fought against the litter that these seagulls churn up in the early hours when one’s bin is most at risk. They rip out pizza crust, wrapper, and rubber, depositing it on the pavement. They also sit in trees and atop lamp posts, depositing unleashing torrents of turds on unsuspecting commuters. Can we blame them? Imagine what a diet of scrapped Bao Buns and Biryanis would do to your own bowels.

And when did people start caring about dogs so much? 95 per cent are so small you could punt them over Sallies Chapel, if you were that way inclined, and the rest wouldn’t fill two slices of bread. Even more irritating is when one attempts to walk up Market Street with an estranged dog owner. Every fifteen paces they have to stop and pet some poor creature and ask what its name is, only to give some unwanted anecdote about their own animal. Bring back pet fish. Nothing better than a silent pet confined to a small jar in a forgotten corner of the fridge. Dogs, though they may have their redeeming qualities, do their business anywhere they please — which is neither polite nor considerate. I don’t really want to return to the Victorian era; I’m quite content with sewage-free streets. What with the relevant strings attached (pardon the pun) it does make it harder to walk anywhere. Dog leads make Market Street into some sort of limbo challenge while trying to do the 110m hurdles. Not being a terribly strong athlete myself, I prefer to simply stay at home. It takes too long to go anywhere anyway.

Rats have returned en masse too. Perhaps a slightly unpopular opinion, but I think they are rather sweet. Would I want one landing on my face at 4am? Most likely not. But they are not the grotesque city rats that look like they’ve just left Chernobyl; they are basically the same as the dachshunds you insist on petting. So next time you think a rat crosses your path, take stock, don’t shriek or run, it could easily be the last cat or dog you stopped to stroke. They are not as dissimilar as you might think.