Our history teacher would borrow from this old boarding school chastisement and send students who did not do their homework to the last row in the class. This row was quickly dubbed by us as the “happy band”. As a mother I found the doghouse a very effective chastising tool, especially at a time when there was no TV to turn Coventry into a happy interlude.

But none of this had prepared me to see a dog — in the metaphorical doghouse. Recently, I called on a friend recuperating from surgery. An animal lover, her canines lay supine all over her room as she lay in bed. They never left her bedside if they could help it. Then a single big golden creature entered the room tentatively, took a quick survey of it, and then — with tail tucked firmly between his legs and a hangdog expression — he quietly crossed over to the balcony at the other end and stayed there.

Is the heat bothering him, I wondered. Why does he not stretch himself out in the bedroom cooled by a large desert cooler? He was in the doghouse I was told, he was being supremely snubbed and no one took any notice of him. He was, in fact, thoroughly ashamed of himself. His crime? He was caught mauling a piglet in the field next to the house. There could be no disharmony in my friend’s veritable Noah’s Ark: canines, felines, feathered species, creepy-crawlies, all had to coexist peacefully. There could be no brooking bloodshed.

Did I say the doghouse treatment was good for humans? It works even better on hyper-sensitive canines.