OWD Tom rarely takes his Border collie, Rommel, to the pub because it hates it. It lies under a table and shakes and looks doleful, occasionally emitting a pained whimper - usually, we have noticed but never dared tell Tom, when his master is lighting up his foul smelling pipe.

So it was a bit of a surprise t'other night when he dragged poor Rommel into the Beggars Arms at the end of a very taut leash. The fact that the poor dog was on a leash at all was a surprise: out and about, he usually sticks to Tom's heel like he was tethered there - unless, of course, he is rounding up Dalesbreds on the slopes of Tup Fell.

"Brought old Rommel, I see," said the Innkeeper. "Need a walk, did he?"

"A walk?" scowled Tom. "We've bin at it sin' daybreak. Poor little bleeper musta run all a' fifty miles today."

"Ah," said the Innkeeper, wishing he had kept his mouth shut.

"But if it's any of thar business - which it arn't- it's the Gov'ment interfering agin. Animals are going to get legal rights, thar knows."

The Innkeeper shook his head, trying to look wise. But Cousin Kate, the postmistress, piped up: "It's true. They're going to introduce a bill of rights for pets. Not that Winston and Maggie need it."

Winston and Maggie, I should explain, are Kate's Siamese cats, fairly new additions to the post office counter. Their owner is, shall we say, something of an old fashioned Tory, hence their names.

"Ah, but they's awright," said Tom dourly. "They's got each other for company. My Rommel 'ere is all on 'is own, since owd Monty kicked the bucket."

Strange, isn't it, how people name their pets. Owd Tom, kiddiewinks, was a soldier in the olden days of World War Two and fought in North Africa when two famous generals, Rommel and Montgomery, were knocking spots off each other.

Funnily enough, when Tom named his brace of collies after these two, they got on like a house on fire. Yet Kate's choice of namesakes, both former Tory prime ministers, fight like, well, cats and cats (mind you, the mind boggles at the thought of Sir Winston and Maggie sharing No 10).

As is his wont, Owd Tom produced from his pocket a crumpled newspaper cutting (or tearing, to be more precise) about the aforesaid animals charter and flattened it out on the bar.

He placed a grubby finger on a paragraph he had marked with pencil and said: "See yon bit there. Then tha'll know what ah'm on about..."

We gathered round. The animal bill of rights, as you would expect, will guarantee that animals should be regularly fed and watered, given warm and dry quarters in which to sleep, and should not be given cruel punishments. On these, everyone is agreed.

But the bit under Tom's grubby paw said that they should also have regular company, either of other animals or human beings, because animals left alone for long periods pine.

Now we all knew this too. But what do they mean by "regular" company? For instance, if someone goes out to work for the day, leaving a dog, cat or even a budgie alone, is he/she going to be dragged before the beaks as a torturer of dumb animals?

"Owd Rommel 'ere pined like mad when Monty went," said Tom.# "But ah don't think 'e's over-keen on cummin t'pub. Does that mean that, in future, ah'll 'ave to stay in an' collie sit?"

I wonder if someone in Whitehall has thought of that?

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.