LET'S get one point clear straight away - I do not dislike animals. In fact, when they're covered in gravy and accompanied by new potatoes and fresh greens, I absolutely adore them.

But then there is the other sort of animals, the creatures known as pets - the Lulus and Tiddles that wear flea collars and have bad breath and cold wet noses that know no bounds of privacy.

I feel the same way about pets as I do about children. I get on fine with well behaved kids who show we grown-ups a bit of respect, but I hate brats.

Similarly a nice, well-behaved dog or cat will have me patting its head and tickling its tummy till it passes out with pleasure, but a badly behaved pet makes me want to do things that could get me reported to the RSPCA.

You can imagine how apprehensive I feel, therefore, hearing the words "You don't mind animals do you?" when I arrive on someone's doorstep, as I did last week for dinner with friends.

I hadn't been warned that since my last visit they had acquired a young dog we shall call Toby.

The owners were like new parents, delighting in their offspring's hyperactive behaviour. This was an animal that bounced off walls, careered into tables and chairs and broke wind - a lot.

"Be careful when you stroke him, he's a Shedder," said Mr New Owner.

A Shedder? I thought. Haven't heard of one of those before. I know about Alsations, Dalmations and King Charles spaniels but a Shedder . . .new breed to me. Not wanting to appear ignorant, I didn't question the animal's pedigree.

Half an hour later I realised there was no need.

Looking down at my long black skirt, I saw I was covered in dog hairs. When you wear a lot of dark colours, as I do, it's exhausting enough being on a constant lookout for dandruff without appearing to have done ten rounds with a Great Dane.

"Sorry," said my friends. "Toby's shedding his hair all the time. We're hoping it's just a seasonal thing."

Time for dinner. There were eight of us around the table - and one under it, Toby the incontinent shedder.

"Don't worry, he's already eaten," the friends explained.

Toby disported himself under the table with great glee - he assaulted us with his cold, wet nose and dribbling jowls, he rolled, snuffled and grunted for titbits while we pretended to be unconcerned, chatting and enjoying an admittedly fine meal.

Seeing the lack of restraint as tacit approval for his activities, Toby became bolder. He nipped someone's ankle and growled when the alarmed owner kicked out with his foot.

"Don't worry, he's only playing," we were told.

But worse was to come. Just before dessert Toby discovered his libido. And the object of his amorous attentions was my leg. This time he really had gone too far.

"Sorry, so sorry!" said my friends as the panting Toby was dragged off to the kitchen. Game, set and match, matey, I thought.

But I was wrong. As I left the house and walked down the path to the gate I felt my foot tread in something . . .

I turned and looked back and saw a furry face watching me from the kitchen window - and I could swear it was smirking.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.