How dare dogs and their arrogant owners ruin my Michelin-starred dinner

I don’t care if you get ‘separation anxiety’ from Fido, I don’t want him slobbering all over my food

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In one of my favourite episodes of the (now defunct) BBC television show Room 101 – where celebrities were invited to discuss their pet hates – Ricky Gervais explained why, if he walked into a restaurant to see a row of highchairs, he would immediately say: “I hope you’re expecting the cast of Snow White, or I’m leaving.”
Babies in restaurants: that was one of the comedian’s pet hates. Because “what they do for a living is they make noises and they smell, and they bang the spoon and they cough up purée,” he raged. “Feed it at home!”
I feel exactly the same about dogs in restaurants. They do almost all of those things and worse. Which is why a piece on the rise of “Fido dining”, as one Sunday newspaper put it, had me wide-eyed and growling, “Hell no.”
Apparently, the number of British venues where dogs are welcome has risen from 6,000 to 11,000 in the past five years, with the trend even embraced by high-end establishments, and Gordon Ramsay, of all people. (Where is a four-letter tirade when you need one?) His Mayfair eatery, Lucky Cat, and the Michelin-starred Pied à Terre, in Fitzrovia, are just two of the latest fine-dining restaurants to inform customers they can enjoy a dog’s dinner if they want one.
Do I care that this means “no more separation anxiety for dog-owning diners”? At the risk of repeating myself: hell no. People can part with a month’s rent at these establishments. Do you think cat owners (me) are going to sit there not enjoying our £25 raw fish and yuzu-based starters because all we can think about is Mrs Snuggleton back home on the sofa? I can promise you that is not the case.
There is an arrogance, too, to dog owners (I’ll get letters, I know) that, again, reminds me of the parents of small children. Gervais describes it perfectly: “‘Ah, look at him covered in custard. Isn’t it sweet?’ No, it’s horrible.” I don’t want a yapping chihuahua seated at the neighbouring table any more than I want a Pomeranian foraging beneath my table for tidbits. And I definitely don’t want to be forced to listen to someone shouting, Sergeant Major-like, at their pooch for two and a half hours, as so often seems to be the case. “Down, Tilly! I said, down!” “Come to Mummy, Milo. Now!”
Animals in restaurants, howling babies in restaurants, phones in restaurants. Sorry, but all three of those are in my Room 101.
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