Talking to a friend in the last few days, he said he’d seen me with my dogs, and had a moment of realisation: with so many dogs, he said, it must be like having kids.

Now, I don’t pretend for a moment that dogs are like children. Dogs are, without doubt, considerably easier.

Of course, with children, you don’t have to worry about their eating horse poop off the road, they aren’t fully mobile from four weeks, they don’t need half as much worming.

However, I am under no delusions. I do not have to save up for university fees, I don’t have to worry about my dogs’ dress sense, or bullying, I don’t have to wake up in a cold sweat thinking about the relative availability of drugs, booze, cock and other influences. These are not concerns to a dog-mother.

Aimée has a list of dogs she wants. She has a particular leaning towards sighthounds: tall, thin and elegant is decidedly her thing.

Incidentally, I am five foot four, slightly dumpy and – well, thank the lord I’m so graceful.

In her dream pack, Aimée has all our current dogs, plus at least one each of the following: Irish wolfhound, borzoi, saluki, silken windhound, whippet, doberman (as guard dog for the others), wired-haired miniature dachshund, smooth standard dachshund, and I might be allowed another labrador.

I exaggerate. The whippet is for me.

We are not in a vast country estate. We’re in a small single-storey house, in the damp patch of Devon. Aimée knows all too well that her dream pack will have to wait for a windfall the size of the moon and a – well a vast country estate.

However, I asked her a question some months ago.

“How many,” I began, “how many dogs do you want, realistically?” Such a good word – realistically.

Given that we already had four, and I anticipated Aimée wanting another miniature dachshund over the next few months – she’d been getting broody looking at puppy pictures, I think I expected her to say she wanted one more, bringing us up to five.

Plenty, right? You poor, innocent fool. You’re just like me.

“Twelve,” she said, without a trace of irony.

I don’t think I could conjure up twelve names, but no sooner was the word out of her mouth, she reconsidered.

“Maybe more. When we’ve won the lottery.”

Well that’s all right then, at least she’s being practical.

We went to a dog show today. An open show. Different from a championship show, it still has all the attendant smells of food and fart.

At Championship shows, the dogs can qualify for Crufts and get letters before their kennel names. At Open Shows, there’s the same level of ringcraft, of walking in a triangle and having the dog examined, but there’s not the same pressure. I have no intention of doing it a disservice but it’s more of a practise run.

I suspect if there were only Championship shows and Crufts, there wouldn’t be enough events during the calendar to ensure the dog doesn’t lose his mind at the busier events.

Applications for the show are made in the months running up to the date. Programmes are printed and rosettes placed in large tupperware tubs. Rings are erected with warning tape and traffic cones.

Should you find yourself attending one of these shows, here’s a tip: take a chair. A folding, fishing-style chair will be your best friend for the day because the show takes ages.

There’s rarely a cash machine, so folding money and change might be an idea too. There will almost always be a food truck or a canteen. The waft of burger and chips, of chilli con carne and cheese pasties will tease and tempt until you wonder if you can sell your Visa card for a couple of quid.

The exhibitors arrive in shades of twisted tweed and comfortable trainers, and change into brightly coloured jackets and court shoes before entering the ring. They have special silver brooches or highly sequinned arm bands for their show numbers. The judges are, I’m sure, delightful people, but they rarely smile.

The showing set tend to go wherever the show is, so it’s inescapable that some exhibitors will come to recognise certain judges, and vice versa. It can feel rather cliquey. Try not to be intimidated.

There are always about a thousand whippets. If you find yourself in the hound group, this is why you’ll need the folding chair.

It’s quite tricky to get the timings right, so that you get to see some of the previous classes without missing yours, and also, so that you’re not stuck there for six of seven hours before getting to your class. Even a dog who enjoys showing will become tired and irritable after a long wait.

The weather was not on our side. The last time we went to the show in Exeter, we got there just after eight in the morning, because the showing was supposed to start at nine. Poppy’s class didn’t start until eleven. That was a creaky-kneed and pasty-less day. It went on for weeks.

This time, the utility class could not take place outside because it has been raining for seven days straight. The land is saturated and the mud is thick. All things being equal, the utility class had to be held inside.

Having weighed this up the night before, we didn’t leave for the show until just before midday. I had to drive across Countess Wear roundabout. Several times, as it turned out, because neither of us had cash and we hadn’t had breakfast.

By the time they got to Poppy’s class, the judge, a man with a kind face and a physique the size of a decent bedsit, was struggling.

It had been a long day for all concerned. It was four o’clock. Poppy went and got placed. She got Reserve Best of Breed. Which is basically second.

She’d enjoyed herself which was the most important thing, and Aimée had done very well getting her to stand nicely.

We had the option of staying until the end of the day for the best of group reserve category.

Poppy might have been on for another certificate. My back was banging and thankfully, we didn’t have too much discussion before it was decided: we were going home.

We should have brought chairs.