Gus and I went walking with an old friend who has acquired a “labradoodle.” Just now I could hardly type the word without cringing. And he’s a really nice dog.

In case you didn’t know, labradoodles are one of the new designer dogs, engineered for their nonallergenic cuteness—curly, bouncy, friendly, smart fellers who remind me of Ben Heppner, the opera singer.

Now, I’ve no problem with the ancient practice of breeding. Only, whoever called these dogs labradoodles should be handed a stiff fine. On what charge? Oh, I don’t know—excessive branding, maybe. Or better, psychic cruelty to animals, for it condemns these fine dogs to be treated the way you would anyone whose name ends in “doodle.”

I don’t care what you call a dog, it should never detract from its core attributes, honesty and courage. A dog, any dog, is an honest man (or woman), in a fur coat he grew himself. The small dog does not think of herself as a small dog. Nor the cute one as cute.

Annabelle named her labradoodle Tosca, which gave him some dignity, and God, you talk about cute. Eventually both Gus and I became a bit tired of how often the word came up, which suggested that, for many, Tosca had become a design commodity. To go by the conversation he inspired, you would have thought he was a Smart car or something new from Macintosh. Every so often someone would turn to Gus and say something like, “You’re cute too!” Which didn’t help any.

Okay, fine, on our walk we turned a corner, and there on the path sat a black Scottie dog. Now you don’t get more cute than a Scottie dog. Surely the Scottie is the daddy, the archetype of the cute dog. There he was in the lie down position, paws crossed in front, as though waiting for his master. Gus gave him a sniff, and we continued on our way.

Up the path was a nice-looking woman, just standing there. “Did you lose your dog?” was the obvious question. “No,” she replied, with a hint of weariness. “He’s not lost.”

“Would that be the Scottie?”

She nodded. “His name is Duncan.”

“Is Duncan okay?” my friend asked.

“Oh, yes. Did you notice? He was sitting just in front of a curve in the path.”

I acknowledged this was true.

“That’s because Duncan wants to know what’s coming next. He hears people behind him and he won’t move until he sees them. And he hears them a long way off.”

“You can’t get him to stop doing this?”

“Any suggestions how?” she replied.

What I found interesting was that this woman did not find Duncan’s peculiarity the cute. She had to live with it, you see.

Really, there was nothing cute about Duncan. Duncan took his life as seriously as you and I do our own. And living with Duncan, you’re going to find this out.

Duncan wanted to see who was coming next. I could relate to that behaviour. Surely the entire advertising industry is predicated on the suspicion that something better is just around the corner.

My friend and I continued to the halfway point of our walk, then turned back. When we passed the woman again, she had progressed about 30 metres. Again she stood beside the path, patiently waiting. Farther down, just before the path veered left, sat Duncan, paws crossed in front of him, ears perked up, waiting to see what was coming next.

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