I WAS heartened to hear of the travails of Chhotu, the Indian dog who appeared in court last week accused of breaching the peace. This is not because I take delight in criminalising animals (although that yappy Yorkie down the road could do with a restraining order). Rather, it makes me feel a little better about my own canine concerns. (Please indulge me while I elaborate. The therapy will be much appreciated.) Let me introduce Murphy, our two-year-old "terriador" (terrier and labrador are but two of many strains in his much-mixed blood).

We met him at the pound in Milton on St Patrick's Day and fell for his Irish brogue and rakish whiskers. We perhaps should have paid more attention to his criminal record: he has much previous from his life as a stray on the streets of Helensburgh.

Sadly, Murphy (aka Houdini) has never quite overcome his wanderlust. So far, he's been brought home by the dog warden in a big white Transit van (we were the talk of the neighbourhood); been lifted by the polis; and turned up in the school playground at bell-time to meet our son and play with the children.

So we shouldn't have been too surprised when we received a phone call while we were in Italy on holiday from a kind stranger - let's call him Mr X - who had Murphy in custody.

The errant pooch had been lodging with my brother, who kindly offered to take him in for the holidays when the local kennels confirmed that he was barred from the establishment for barking too much (Murphy's issues are many and varied). But the great escape artist had given his keeper the slip.

Thank goodness he has a disc on his collar bearing our mobile phone number - a holiday without Murphy would be so dull.

Unfortunately, it transpired that this latest escapade was a little more complicated.

While chatting with Mr X during the repatriation of Murph, my brother was dismayed to hear that Mrs Y round the corner had passed away rather suddenly. In his shock at hearing of the untimely death of this village stalwart, he was perhaps rather distracted and Murphy took the opportunity to scarper once more.

In hot pursuit of the wayward hound, my brother then bumped into Mrs Z, another veteran local, and had time to pass on the sad news, to much consternation.

The chase continued, Murphy was duly apprehended and all was well - until a wrathful Mrs Z arrived at my brother's door the following day to give the scallywag a piece of her mind.

Alas, it seems that news of Mrs Y's demise was grossly exaggerated. You see, it was another Mrs Y who had met her maker.

Understandably, Mrs Z was rather upset at being fed misinformation; especially as she'd spent three hours waiting at the pillar box for the postman to empty it so she could retrieve the sympathy card which she had posted the previous day.

I suspect this is the last time my brother will dog-sit Murphy.

Meanwhile, Chhotu's case continues. As he prepares for his next court appearance on Tuesday, I can only empathise with his owners.

I wonder if Murphy fancies a gap year in India?