WHEN I was but a boy, we had a semi-feral cat called Fred and an over amorous black Labrador named Sam.

Looking back, I realise that my dear departed mum was not particularly adventurous with their names and for that I will be eternally grateful.

Our previous pets, you see, had been two Chihuahuas. Sisters they were and their names were Kissy and Pooch.

That’s right, Kissy and Pooch. Whatever was she thinking?

Now, as a mere child this state of affairs was not too bad. But can you imagine the loss of face for a testosterone fuelled, peri-pubital teenager with an occasional squeak to his voice to have to shout those particular names in the park?

I positively cringe as I think of myself having to yell, “Here, Kissy, Kissy! Here Pooch, Pooch” whilst simultaneously trying to look cool and somehow keep the spotty side of my face away from the general public’s view.

So, for me at least, Fred and Sam were a huge improvement on what might have been.

But while they may have saved my face, they did nothing for my younger sister’s. Fred and Sam did not get on.

One was a cat, the other a dog. One preferred living it rough outside, catching mice and stalking other small mammals. The other lay by the fire, stole crumbs from the kitchen floor and, in a most embarrassing fashion, frequently clasped his forelegs around our friends and made a recurrent jerking body movement that we really didn’t understand. Although we were beginning to get the idea.

But while they both had their likes, they positively hated each other.

Fred, being a cat, had the guile, athleticism and sense of humour to maintain the upper hand. Or rather paw. When, of a morning, Sam would be tempted into the kitchen with a biscuit and locked therein as we left for school, Fred would appear on the window sill and laugh, in a catty way, at his imprisonment.

As Sam was being walked on a lead on a country path, Fred would meander close by, flaunting his feline freedom and parading his obvious lack of formal training.

Unfortunately for my sister, this drove Sam so mad that when one day he got the chance to chase Fred, he chased him. Fred, not being daft and realising he was cornered, fled to my sister, who scooped him up in a protective manner, whereupon he used his considerable claws to scale her face and climb to the relative safety of the top of her head.

It only took a decade or so for the scars to fade. For a long time, the tram lines on her face were so obvious it looked like she might have gone through some form of tribal ritual.

There is a lesson here, for the many owners who think it is okay to bring their cat or rabbit into the surgery in their bare arms.

They may think they can trust their own pet not to struggle but can they trust the one sitting next to them not to have a go?