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I'm naturally a cat person. Although I quite like dogs, especially whippets and dachshunds, I have to say that, given a free rein and a husband without a life-threatening allergy to cat dander, my pet of choice would always be feline.

We only discovered my husband's pet problem when we took on a kitten called Tigger.

This tiny bundle of black and white fluff certainly lived up to his jungle name. To say he was a bit on the wild side is something of an understatement.

Although he bonded with me and was a perfectly delightful companion, for some reason, he took a violent dislike to my husband and used to lay in wait for him around the house - springing from various hiding places to sink his claws and sometimes his teeth into unprotected flesh.

When my husband first started to make vague noises about Tigger having to go, I thought it was just a touch of jealously allied to a low pain threshhold. I even managed to ignore my spouse's laboured breathing, watering eyes and continual gasping for air for quite a long time - until, one evening, he had to be rushed to casualty and hooked up to the nearest ventilator.

I was faced with a cruel choice: one of them had to go. After much deliberation I decided to hang on to my husband - after all, I reasoned, he does all the cooking.

Tigger was shipped off to live with my mother-in-law's widowed, cat-loving best friend in Potters Bar where he continues to rule the roost in a state of splendid feline supremacy, secure in the knowledge that he is the only man about the house.

Meanwhile, bereft of a pet (apart from a couple of unusually aggressive goldfish), I've started to fantasise about the possibility of one day getting a dog.

Recently, however, I went off this idea. You see, the trouble with dogs is dog people'.

If you watched those broadcasts from Crufts on prime-time TV last month, you'll probably know what I mean. Every time we switched it on, we found ourselves absolutely riveted, not by the bright eyes, glossy coats and wagging tails of the dogs trotting round the show ring, but by their owners.

Mostly large, well-upholstered ladies of a certain age, there was never any doubt about who was top dog as they paraded their pooches for the judges. By the jut of their determined jaws and the take no prisoners' set of their expressions, these were women who could make the average rottweiller look like a cuddly bundle of fun.

While the owners were generally dressed in a pair of solidly sensible slacks (so good for movement in the show ring), the female judges had clearly been told to make an effort on the sartorial front and had excavated a range of impressively tweedy skirts from the nether regions of their wardrobes.

Clearly sprung from the same mould as the competitors, this feminine affectation utterly failed to disguise the fact that many of them still looked like a St Bernard in drag.

OK, I admit this is extremely shallow of me, but don't you think that cat people win by considerably more than a whisker when it comes to style?

And it's not just about looks. As far as I can see cat people are generally more urbane and sophisticated than their dog-loving counterparts.

For example, I can't for a moment imagine the cat lovers of Great Britain complaining in such numbers that one of the most amusing and life-enhancing adverts on television is actually pulled from the schedules.

I write, of course, about the 30-second VW Polo car commercial that features a Jack Russell singing' along to the Spencer Davis Group classic I'm A Man.

When he's inside the car, the dog is master of all he surveys; when he's not, he's seen whimpering a bit and shivering with his tail between his legs.

I loved that advert. Sometimes recently, it's been the best thing on TV all evening. Writing as someone who has had experience of several Jack Russells, it seemed to me that it captured something quite accurate about the essential spirit of these bolshy little dogs.

The mother of one of my school friends had a particularly characterful Jack Russell called Laddie. The little chap insisted on mating furiously with my foot every time I went round there for tea and could only be dissuaded by Mrs Pughs' stentorian command: "Down, Laddie. Bad boy". When Mrs Pugh wasn't around he carried on regardless, no matter what we said to him.

Hundreds of British dog lovers have now apparently complained about the Polo advertisement, believing that the shivering Jack Russell seen outside the car has clearly been mistreated.

This is utter nonsense. Hello it's a screen fantasy. Have they never been to the cinema?

I wonder if these same animal-loving, moaning minnies ever felt compelled to pick up the phone and question the credentials of the heart-wrenching NSPCC funding appeals featuring abused children?

I think not.

I'm rather embarrassed to be from the same country as people who display such blinkered stupidity - and, even worse, such a total failure of humour.

A letter about the Polo ad published in The Times last week included the line: "As a dog owner with decades of experience, I know that an animal would not cower and shiver in that way unless it had been despicably maltreated".

Well, as a non-dog owner, with absolutely no experience whatsoever, I'm also pretty confident that an animal would not sing along to the great sound of the Spencer Davis Group without considerable CGI enhancement.

Then again, I'm a cat girl, what do I know?

I couldn't sign off this week without crowing about the fact that the whole world now knows what we in Watford have known for ages.

As national and international news crews repeatedly told us all during various bulletins last week, Gordon Brown chose The Grove "in Watford" as the venue to host his progressive governance conference.

Which is funny, because if you look at this swanky hotel's website and publicity material you'll find it very hard indeed to spot the W word.

10:52am Friday 18th April 2008

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