When I hear folk describing the souls I love as dumb animals, it really peeves me.

Here are some phrases that make me grrrrrrowl:

• it’s just a dog;
• but it’s not a child;
• sure it doesn’t understand;
• it doesn’t feel pain;
• it has no soul;
• put the dog outside.

Without the animals in my life I reckon it would be crap – yes even with all the humans I am surrounded by, in fact because of some of those humans…

Bungey, Jilly and Peter Rabbit

And I’m a total woopsie when it comes to huntin’, fishin’ shootin’ and generally the maltreatment, death or suffering of any animal.

I can’t cope with those Facebook posts that show dogs in cages en route to join the food chain.

I have to look away from the little donkeys with overgrown hooves hobbling about my TV screen in the wonky-donkey ads.

I swallow hard when that bloody RSPCA ad comes one with some loon pretending to be a sad dog doing its own voice over.

And although he wasn’t killed, I well up to Galloping Home, the theme tune to Black Beauty. Da daaaa, da da da da da da da da daaaaaa … enough.

Instead of getting my hormone levels checked, I prefer to believe I have a penchant to protect the vulnerable and fight for the underdog – and I think the majority of humans are able to speak up for themselves and should do.

So I rescue worms from the rain and manhandle dying Daddy Long Legs to a better place and life.

I even buried my friend Derek’s very dead rat, Boddington, in a makeshift coffin and a shallow garden grave. I made the builders who were working at the house during Derek’s holiday, dig me a hole and join in a few words over Bod’s lavender-strewn cardboard coffin.

One of the lads – let’s call him No Arse Smart Arse – asked me what religion Boddington was. I had no idea, I’d never asked him, so I casually stated he was an interdenominational rodent and we left it at that.

I was sorry he’d snuffed it. I was sorrier it had happened on my watch. Apparently Boddington had had the flu. Yes, the rat had had flu and no one thought to mention it to me. Rat flu. Surely that had to be bubonic. I checked my oxters for weeks after that.

Anyway, I let on that I love ALL living creatures but today I confess to an exception.

Earwigs. Or eariewigs as they’re known in our house where entire colonies apparently live.

What are they actually for? I squish them, I squash them, I even cut one in half once with scissors during a salad preparation incident, and it still nipped at me. Half of it! Freaked me out. So earwigs can naff right off. Although I still feel bad about the snipping accident.

However the suffering, killing and death of animals in general makes me feel sad. The thought of breeding dogs to help humans hunt an other animal drains me. The thought of breeding puppies to sell at all hurts my soul.

And I am a total hypocrite of course.

I do buy puppies from breeders I trust. I have also bought a puppy from a breeder I didn’t trust too – little Healey, a psycho Schnuazer now long gone. He was demented his entire life and it was our fault for taking him away from his mother too early.

I eat beef and chicken, I can manage bacon butties no problem and I have munched on veal and horse – although I’m sweating at the thought of it now.

But take gun dogs. They are trained to the gun, trained to be accessories in the killing of other animals. Some make the grade and they love the life. Others do not and they get dumped or destroyed.

So thank goodness for Sam Willoughby and his merry band of fruitloops who look after the Gundog Rescue and Rehoming Group in Northern Ireland.

Sam is a good man. Sam is a kind man. Sam is a soft-arse.

But Sam has a major fault. He loves gun dogs and the pawramilitary work they are bred for. So because I love this big softie, we do not discuss it.

We do discuss our love of dogs though and the fact that he actually does something about it, something useful.

Since January Sam and the gang has rescued 272 gundogs with his volunteers – not all of whom hunt.

These poor pooches had become unwanted or unneeded for some reason so their owners passed the responsibility to someone else – in these cases, Sam and his group of kindred souls.

These dogs are not a breeze to deal with. They have busy minds and the physical ability to match and they need dedicated owners.They need to work, play and have company and they are slightly nuts – like beautiful George pictured here.

Look at this crew – they don’t look nuts do they?  But they know better and they push the limits through fear or fun.

And look this this bunch…well exactly. Just look at them.

Filthy, frightened and huddled together for what? For comfort, for heat? Who knows what was in the poor minds of these poor Springer Spaniels.

These dogs needed new homes where they could be loved and become companions and of course, Sam and crew stepped in to help.

Here’s how bright, habitual, spirited and independent Springers are.

We had one when I was a child. His name was Bungey and he was a kleptomaniac with a perpetualy  wiggling bottom and a very beautiful smile.

When our beloved rabbit Pippa died and was buried in a back field by my dad, Alan, Bungey dug her up and delivered her back to her rabbit hutch where he knew she belonged. He felt just as we did. We all wanted her back.

When my brother Adrian was a child, his job after coming home from primary school was to take a laundry basket filled to the brim with all of Bungey’s stolen booty around the houses.

The neighbours would remove their property – none of it ever damaged. It was a routine we all got used to and no one complained about the theft of boots, shoes, clothes and bizarre household items.

And when we moved house Bungey found new neighbours to charm. Every day Mr and Mrs Kavanagh would walk the 30 minutes with Bungey to be escorted to Bangor’s Co-Op to enjoy a cup of tea.

Bungey escaped every day from our garden at 10.29am to walk into the town with them. They tried to outwit him and left early, left late and left separately. But it was no use. He was their half-hour companion Monday to Friday.

And after he accompanied them to the Co-Op Bungey would veer right into the little grocery there and pinch a pound bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate and hoof out the door. Then with purple tinfoil scattering in the sea breeze, he would tuck him.

The thieving was all going swimmingly until the manager of the Co-Op got fed up and phoned Bangor RUC station to complain to the new sergeant.

Here’s how the conversation went:

Angry Co-Op boss: “Sergeant there’s a bloody big dog eating me out of house and home at the Co every day. I’m out a fortune.”

RUC sergeant: “Oh. Have you tried taking the chocolate off the dog.. it can’t be that hard. It’s only a dog.”

Angry Co-Op boss: “Only a dog? It’s £**&))(*^^%$&*$^()) enormous for *^&&%%^ ‘s sake…you to sort this out or I’ll be broke.”

RUC Sergeant: “Alright fella, calm down. I’ll send a Landrover down tomorrow and you throw the dog in the back and I’ll sort him out.”

Angry Co-Op boss: “OK.”

Click.

The next morning as 11am approached staff at the Co-Op were on standby for the arrival of the Kavanaghs and Bungey; tense, watchful and ready to close the doors behind the eternally happy thief.

And there he was with his charges. The electronic doors swooshed open and in walked the threesome.

The staff pounced as Bungey veered for the chocolate but they weren’t fast enough.

But the manager had closed the doors and Bungey was trapped inside, Cadbury’s bar in his chops, shocked look on his big hairy face and the Kavanaghs looking helplessly on while being transported by escalator to the first floor cafe.

Bungey was busted.

Taxi for Mr Bungey?

An RUC Landrover appeared moments later and Bungey was unceremoniously chucked in the back and taken to Bangor police station where he promptly hopped out and ate his chocolate before being driven home thanks to his collar and ID tag.

For years afterwards, the unmistakable sound of an RUC Landrover could be heard approaching our home, followed by the sound of the back doors opening and a policeman telling Bungey: “Go on, get out you eejit.”

And our big fella used those grey Landrovers as a taxi service home with such regularity that new recruits to Bangor police station were warned if a big brown and white dog jumped into the Landrover, not to shoot – he was a reserve officer of the highest regard.

Eejit?

Just a dog?

Our Bungey?

I think not…

Gundog Rescue and Rehoming can be reached at :

http://www.facebook.com/groups/584044518356131/

Right. I’m off. Things to do.