I’ve just seen an advert on television.
In this advert, a rather scraggy yet enthusiastic dog is telling me how much love he has to give me.
In fact, it turns out this loving disposition is not limited to cheeky little Scampy. My new brown and off-white friend proceeds to tell me that all dogs have lots of love to give me. How marvellous.
Suddenly, the mood of the advert changes. Vibrant hues and Frisbee-catching montages are replaced with the cold metallic greys of abandoned alleyways, as I am told ominously (by Scampy) that Jack did not understand why his family wanted to get rid of him, and that Suzie got too old for her owners. Scraggy-haired mongrels, their hair matted and flecked with grime, stare back at me with pleading eyes that have known nothing but neglect.
Then – just as I am about to tear my stinging, moistened eyes from the screen and blow my brains out – someone comes to the rescue!
Just when all seemed lost, a strongly-built cliché-affirming gap-year lesbian in a dark green polo shirt hoists the poor wretch from his cardboard box, and within seconds they are both in a sunny field, apparently having a bit of a kiss and a cuddle. As the scene unfolds, I am informed that such canoodling of stray dogs can be funded for as little as two pounds a week (although I suspect some of this money also goes on keeping the animal alive).
Scampy’s voiceover is now building to the dénouement of his pitch to me, his emotionally tenderised viewer. After the sob stories of Jack and Suzie I am putty in his paw, prepped and ready to pick up the phone and scream “Take the money, Scampy! Take it all! This madness must STOP!”, before blurting out the details of all my accounts and credit cards.
He tells me that if I decide to send money to the Dog’s Trust the dogs will love me, be my friend, write to me, send me an information pack…
Hold on.
Now, I understand that sponsoring a dog is not the same as owning a dog, and that the love that these dogs have to give – the appreciation they feel for not having been thrown off a viaduct – is in many ways metaphorical, and impossible for them to communicate to me in person. I can even understand that Scampy is asking for my money so that it can be thrown into a large pot so that people who love dogs can do things with it, even if that means using it to cover admin costs, or buy dark green polo shirts.
I’m ok with the fact that Scampy is telling me that my sponsored dog will love me, even if that’s not necessarily possible in real life…
But write me a LETTER? Is this a joke? You’re actually trying to get my money by saying that, for two pounds a week, I can get a personalised letter written by a DOG?
“LIAR!” I scream at the television, burning tears rolling freely down my blotchy cheeks. “You had me, Scampy! You had me RIGHT WHERE YOU WANTED ME! I would have given you EVERYTHING!”
Bawling with primal rage, I scramble on top of the coffee table and urinate all over my television, wailing Scampy’s name over and over while the sparks fly.
Such is the power of advertising, dear reader.
Never mind the fact that people in this country give more money to animal charities than they do to charities that help humans (don’t get me started on THAT) – these animal charities now tell us that dogs are not only aware that they are being sponsored, but also that they are keen to jot down a note from time to time to let us know how they’re getting on.
As the proud owner of a pet cat (albeit a cat with a tendency to sink his claws into my testicles while I play xbox in my dressing gown), I am by no means an animal-hating sadist. No one likes to think of dogs and cats wasting away in a box, before finally popping their clogs and being disguised as mutton in a ‘meat’ madras. If people want to support these animal charities, it’s their money. It’s the tactics they use that I resent.
Why not just say;
“If you like dogs, and would rather they didn’t die needlessly, please give money to our charity.”
Instead of;
“Dogs are nice, aren’t they? They wouldn’t let you down, or put you in a nursing home and forget about you. Your family may not write to you any more, but our dogs would! Now give us £96 a year out of your already insufficient pension, or we’ll cover this ageing spaniel with tar and then stamp on it.”
The Dogs Trust, eh?
Well I certainly bloody don’t.
