The two creatures above are my beloved Westies, Toby and Malibu. They are tired, I guess, from marauding through the neighbourhood, attacking children and stealing vegetables, setting paper bags of their shit on fire on doorsteps and ringing the bell. They have also been plotting with the great (x 9) grandchild of Guy Fawkes to blow up Parliament.
There are lazy opinions, there are vicious ones, and then there is Suzanne Moore’s proposal to “outlaw” dogs — a piece of prose so nakedly small it reads like a personality disorder with a byline.
This is not journalism; it is a tantrum that wandered into print. It has all the merits of a grumble scribbled on a dinner napkin and none of the responsibilities of the profession that pretends to inform.
Her article is linked above — one of the little curses of the digital age: you can no longer defecate on a column without voiding your computer’s warranty.
Moore’s method is the refuge of the modern pundit: anecdote in a suit, dressed up as epid…
