Whilst I was at large in Eastern Europe, my old friend Rigor Mortified (a veterinary nurse) told me a story that was just too funny not to steal, especially given this blog's unflinching pro-dog standpoint.
On one fateful day, RM is late into her shift when a large Geordie man enters her field of vision carrying a shoe-box.
"Weeya tak a luke at me puppy, like?" he asks.
"What?" responds RM.
"Me puppy. Weeya tak a luke?" says the man, holding out the box.
"Um... OK" RM says slowly, eyeing the box with suspicion. "What's wrong with your puppy?"
"It dinna eat," the man says. "An' dinna play. Willna gan fer a walk. Two hundred quid ah paid fer this puppy. Pure breed, ah gat told."
"Right", says RM. "A pure breed what?"
"A pure breed puppy," the man insists. "Rottweiler."
By now RM is thoroughly doubtful. "You have a rottweiler puppy?"
"That cost two hundred quid?"
"In that rather small shoebox?"
This, needless to say, is not good news. Whatever else might be wrong with this poor creature, the fact it can fit into such a small space is clearly cause for concern in itself. Not entirely sure she wants to see what pathetic creature awaits her within, RM takes the box gingerly, and opens the lid.