Northern Auntie has offered to say the stuff we never would: She's at pains to confirm she's a natural brunette, has bi-fold doors and loves the North, pale wine and European mini-breaks - although she does not offset her flights. Northern Auntie is not being funny, but recognises somebody had to say it. (Dress: Aspiga)
MagNorth’s new correspondent for modern manners, minor outrages and things nobody else appears willing to say aloud.
First into the dock: perfectly able-bodied dogs being pushed around like minor European royalty.
A word before we begin.
If your dog is elderly, disabled, recovering from an operation or otherwise unable to walk very far, Northern Auntie has no quarrel with you.
Tuck them in. Adjust their little blanket. Make sure they are comfortable. You are doing a lovely thing, and Northern Auntie wishes you both a pleasant afternoon. Thank God it's not the 1970s, when your dog would have gotten the bullet.
We are not talking about those dogs.
We are talking about the other ones.
The bright-eyed, glossy-coated, structurally impeccable dogs being conveyed through our town centres in quilted carriages, sitting bolt upright beneath retractable sun canopies as they survey the pedestrian classes.
Dogs who look as though they could bring down a small deer.
Dogs who, if released, could be in Doncaster before you had time to shout, “Come back, Hugo!”
Hugo is not coming back. Hugo has tasted freedom.
Northern Auntie first became aware of this development outside a café, where a perfectly healthy-looking cockapoo was being lifted from a vehicle resembling a Victorian perambulator redesigned by Range Rover.
It had cup holders.
It had suspension.
It had more storage than Northern Auntie’s first flat.
The dog was lowered carefully to the pavement, where it took three steps, relieved itself against a planter and was promptly returned to its carriage.
The entire expedition had lasted 40 seconds.
Now, Northern Auntie has lived through fondue sets, avocado bathroom suites and the period when otherwise sensible adults put the word Live, Laugh, Love above their fireplaces. She understands that society must occasionally lose its bearings before finding its way home.
But a dog is, fundamentally, an animal with legs.
Usually four of them.
Walking is not an unfortunate side effect of dog ownership. It is one of the central operating principles. Dogs walk. It is their thing. They sniff lampposts, investigate hedges and spend seven minutes examining a patch of pavement upon which, to the untrained human eye, absolutely nothing has occurred. Then as the owner - you do something unspeakable with a small green plastic bag.
Take away the walking and what remains?
A furry passenger with expensive dietary requirements.
Of course, we have been heading in this direction for some time. Dogs now have birthday parties, raincoats, social-media accounts and menus. They attend weddings. They sleep on memory foam. They eat hand-finished venison morsels while their owners stand over the sink eating grated cheese directly from the packet.
Northern Auntie recently saw an advertisement for a dog “wellness retreat”.
The dog looked well already.
It was a Labrador.
A Labrador can achieve spiritual fulfilment by finding half a sausage beneath a hedge. After running five miles.
But the pram represents a significant escalation. It is the moment at which the dog ceases to accompany the family and becomes its hereditary monarch.
You can see it in their faces.
No dog sitting in a pram looks embarrassed. They look confirmed. (If a dog is in fact a sentient being), the expression says: “At last, the arrangements reflect my status.”
And the prams themselves are no modest affairs. These are not repurposed pushchairs rescued from somebody’s garage. They are bespoke canine transportation systems, available in colours including Champagne Blush, Midnight Graphite and something called Urban Sage.
Urban Sage is green.
Some have rain covers, cooling mats and panoramic viewing windows. One model promises “effortless manoeuvrability across multiple terrains”, which raises an obvious question: if we are tackling multiple terrains, might the dog be allowed a go?
Northern Auntie knows what you are thinking.
“Why do you care? It isn’t hurting anybody.”
And you are right. It probably isn’t.
That is the difficulty with modern life. Its greatest irritations are rarely crimes. They are simply tiny disturbances in the fabric of reason: QR-code menus, restaurants serving chips in plant pots, people conducting FaceTime conversations on public transport without headphones.
Nobody is injured. Nothing can be reported. Yet somewhere deep within the northern soul, a small alarm begins to sound.
Because where does this end?
Today it is a dachshund in a stroller. Tomorrow, somebody will be carrying a greyhound through John Lewis in a papoose.
By Christmas, the nation’s border collies will have abandoned sheep altogether and be demanding airport lounge access.
There is also the awkward matter of children.
Somewhere in Britain right now, a four-year-old is being told that they are too big for the buggy while a French bulldog named Arthur is pushed past them beneath a parasol.
That child is learning something about the world.
Northern Auntie is not entirely sure what, but it cannot be good.
Still, fairness must prevail. The dog pram has its uses. Crowded places can overwhelm nervous animals. Hot pavements can burn paws. Smaller dogs tire on long days out, and a carrier may allow them to remain with their people safely.
There are explanations. There are exceptions. There is, as always, nuance.
Let's just hope the bastard offspring of the 5th Shock Army understand that, after they're done with the Baltic states.
Northern Auntie is not a fan of nuance.
Nuance is how they get you.
So here is the ruling:
Dogs who are elderly, poorly, disabled, frightened or recovering: your carriage awaits. Travel in comfort, little one. You have earned it.
Dogs attending a long family day out: pram use may be permitted, provided a reasonable proportion of the journey is completed under your own propulsion.
Dogs wearing sunglasses in prams despite possessing four functioning legs and the cardiovascular fitness of a junior Olympian: absolutely not.
Out.
Walk.
You are a dog.
And if Hugo objects, he may write to the editor.
Assuming, of course, that somebody is available to hold his pen.
NORTHERN AUNTIE’S VERDICT: Prams are for babies, shopping, and dogs with a legitimate medical or practical need. Everybody else can get their paws on the pavement.
Is Northern Auntie wrong? Almost certainly not - but you are welcome to attempt to persuade her. Send your objections, confessions and nominations for future investigations to Rosie at editorial@mag-noth.com
Editor's note: Any resemblence our Northern Auntie has with person's living or dead is purely coincidental.
For confirmation: Northern Auntie does not have a rental prperty on St James Road or a pizza oven next to the soil and waste pipe in the garden.
