A little spoken fact about my past work history is that I once spent three months as a dog warden coordinator at Belfast City Council - I even had a CB radio "handle" (kids - ask your parents).
I tell you this because the city's dog wardens were in the news yesterday after being obliged to "HD" Lennox the dog following two years on doggy death row. (In dog warden world, "HD" stands for "humanely destruct" as opposed to "high definition" which is something entirely different).
Despite a global campaign including the collection of 200,000 signatures appealing for clemency, Lennox met his end on the grounds that he was classed as a pit bull and therefore the canine equivalent of an illegal immigrant under Northern Ireland law.
Poor Lennox's fate reminded me of one particularly eccentric Belfast dog warden during my time, who we'll call "John" (that being his name).
John was one of those classic people you meet who would slot straight into a sitcom without the need to change or exaggerate his character in any way. And he just loved to drag dogs away for "HD."
Of course, not all owners were as keen to see their pooches terminated as he was, particularly when the owners in question were kids. But John had a tactic for dealing with this, which he once relayed to me with a bloodcurdling smile.
"I tell them I'm taking their beloved little darling off to the farm," he explained.
"Aw, that's nice," I replied.
"And it's the truth, because they do end up on a farm," John enthused.
"Oh," I said, "and how come?"
"Because after I've killed them, they're made into fertiliser!"
RIP Lennox.
