He emits smells worse than any man after a particularly raucous night on the tiles. His breath can, on occasion, smell like a half time urinal. He commits atrocities in the garden and then looks on, almost smugly, as I, his faithful human, clean up.

He'll destroy the sofa, howl at 3am and churn up more mud, somehow, than a ploughing match.

But I love my dog more than almost anything else.

I've no idea how he feels, of course. He is just a wobbly head perched precariously atop a black sack of knobbly bones.

Often, amid the aforementioned protests, he'll show signs of affection - bouncing around like pop corn when we arrive home, lying with legs and bald belly in the air like a dead bug and going berserk at the word 'walk'.

But, being a greyhound, he has perhaps more reason than most to hold a grudge against humanity.

Born in an Irish barn his life started off pretty badly. Although, compared to many of his peers it's fair to say he had an easy ride.

Some turn up twisted and scarred. This is not to make a political point about the industry which bred them but more as an observation.

These dogs are often nervous wrecks when they arrive in the real world and have to be rebuilt by kind fosterers and adopters.

In the soggy woods as he rakes the ground manically I'll desperately avert catastrophe, pulling him away before he can fling what he has just produced into some unfortunate passerby.

As a squirrel darts up a tree he'll almost yank my shoulder out of its joint in a frenzied attempt to capture his furry nemesis.

I was told about a greyhound who gave its owner the slip and sprinted after one, careering into a tree and, tragically, snapping its neck.

'On winter walks through wide fields with inky skies stretching forever it's suddenly obvious as he trots ahead just how small and helpless he is in an enormous and cruel world...'

They are sweet but stupid animals who require someone to look after them.

On winter walks through wide fields with inky skies stretching forever it's suddenly obvious as he trots ahead just how small and helpless he is in an enormous and cruel world.

But he is also the great social leveller. For every angry thought about wicked people mistreating dogs there's a drawn-out chat in the park with someone who adores them.

If owners meet it doesn't matter what their views are on Brexit, if they're a conspiracy theorist or a shameless misogynist, because it's unlikely any such topics will come up.

A man down the road with dementia tells me he forgets most things apart from my dog, or Trap 7 as he calls him.

Our foster dog was Trap 8 and he remembers him too. He adores greyhounds, somewhat conflictingly, because of and not in spite of his love of betting on them.

I daren't ask if that view changes when Trap 7 limps in last.

But more than anything having a dog makes me selfish.

Because a dog means when at social occasions you almost always want to be somewhere else, namely with the dog or at least near the dog or with some idea when you will see the dog.

It means I have learned how to say no to invitations and not care about what people will think.

That's not to say every invitation I have rejected in the past year was because I'd rather be with my dog - but the vast majority were and will continue to be.

And this has crept, slowly, into my wider life. While on holiday recently, minus dog, I was repeatedly able to wave away advancing friends armed with plans of doing something other than lying on a sun lounger all day.

I don't want to go on a boat trip or play tennis, thanks, I will instead lie here rising, occasionally, to waddle to the all-inclusive bar and order a slushy, brightly-coloured and highly alcoholic beverage.

I don't think this new approach is rude but frankly don't care if it is as I am doing what makes me happy, which appears to be either lying down or in the company of a canine.

What do you think? Comment below or email opinion@thekmgroup.co.uk We're always looking for diverse views on the biggest issues. Get in touch if you'd like to contribute...