There were just four other patients in the waiting room when I went in.

One was sitting by the window and looked distinctly uncomfortable, shifting around uneasily and scratching. I caught his eye but he immediately hung his head and looked away.

The door of the surgery opened and without warning the patient by the window wriggled under a chair. "He obviously doesn't like being here," I thought.

The woman with him looked annoyed. "Don't be so silly, you know we have to get this done every year and it doesn't hurt," she said. "Injections," she added by way of explanation, looking across at me. His expression, however, needed no words. It said: "How would she know? It's me, not her, who's getting them."

He came out from beneath the chair. He was greying and elderly and his legs were shaking as he moved reluctantly towards the surgery. Suddenly he stopped and, without any embarrassment, wet himself.

The woman with him apologised while the receptionist hurried round with a bucket and mop. "This often happens as they get older," she said.

I glanced down at my own dog - sorry, The Mother's dog - sitting beside me, its own greying whiskers quivering. "Don't even consider it," I hissed. "You haven't a hope of catching the sympathy vote. You're with me today."

Much as I like animals, I do hate going to the vet's. It's always such a palaver. The Mother gets more agitated than the dog and usually I just leave them to it and walk away.

But last Friday I couldn't. The Mother had developed what appeared to be a boil on her ankle and the slightest pressure made her wince.

Unfortunately, the dog had simultaneously contracted some horrible canine skin disease and bald patches were proliferating on its legs, giving it an alarmingly moth-eaten appearance.

"She needs ointment and antibiotics but I don't know how I'm going to get her to the vets," said The Mother, who has experienced similar outbreaks in the past - the dog has, I mean, not The Mother personally.

"Don't worry, I'll take her," I said. Well, I had to volunteer didn't I? It wasn't as if I was doing anything constructive, like repainting the brickwork at the front of the house or reading War And Peace.

But first I had my instructions. "Remember she hates little white dogs," said The Mother. "If there's one in the waiting room, you'll have to stay outside with her."

Neither of us know why The Mother's dog finds little white dogs so offensive. She is a rescue dog so we know nothing of her early history.

All we know is that while small black dogs, or big white dogs, are friends, it's always open season for small white dogs.

Fortunately, apart from the incontinent labrador-retriever cross, the other patients in the vet's waiting room were a couple of cats and a gerbil. Our appointment went without incident.

Later I looked at The Mother's foot. "I think you should see the doctor about that,"I said. The Mother grimaced. She loathes waiting rooms, surgeries and bossy receptionists.

"Don't worry," I said for the second time that day. "I'll come with you. Just promise me, no hiding under chairs, or worse, when it's your turn to go in."