Terry Sarten once said to me, in a droll satirical way, that one shouldn't write about God or dogs because it could be challenging to the dyslexic reader who may read dog as god and vice versa.
Rob Butcher and L Martin were right to point out in the Chronicle letters that all dogs have the potential to be killers -- the subject of my last column about Pipster the terrier.
Pipster was also used as a literary device to describe moving from what was our family home for the last 30 years and going back up the river.
I grew up on a sheep farm and my father had a way with dogs, winning a few dog trials with his ginger and white heading-dog, Dick.
One day he decided to add an eye dog to his pack and, from day one, Skipper came across as a bit of a psycho compared to the other dogs. For one thing Skipper didn't bark, instead he eyed the sheep until he bent them to his will ... Skipper was intense.
One day we came back from town to discover Skipper had slipped his collar and pushed a small mob of sheep into the corner of the front paddock and ripped their throats out.
Skipper was last seen being dragged away before a report from a .303 echoed around the river valley.
Compared with Skipper, the Pipster is a model bitch. Spayed, vaccinated, microchipped, wormed, de-fleaed, well-fed and housed, she qualifies for the annual council "good dog" licence discount.
I'm not saying that she is perfect. For one thing, the Pipster is a bit of a racist -- she can't stand poodles.
We once had a nasty incident when she tried to take on a cute black poodle riding in the front basket of a mobility scooter and we had to apologise profusely to the driver, a little old lady.
Growing up around dogs you learn not to get between them and their food and to assume a calm body language. These are useful skills on the beaches of Samoa where there are packs of dangerous looking wild curs you wouldn't dare look in the eye.
Some cities in Asia have packs of feral street dogs and in Darjeeling, on the night of a full moon, it is hard to sleep because of the sound of dog fights -- and there are no humans involved.
In Indonesia I've seen a dead dog being scalded and plucked beside the road -- as you would a pig -- and in Western China, in a steam bun, I think I've eaten dog. The meat certainly didn't taste like anything I'd eaten before.
This is not something I've shared with our Pip ... or about the convoy of well-fed labradors, two to a motorbike, heading for the meat markets of Jakarta.
Now that I've retired to the country, I thought I'd focus on my magnum opus -- the millisphere.
A millisphere is a discreet region where roughly 1000th of world's population lives. By definition there are roughly 1000 millispheres and, so far, I have covered only 10.
As my recent millisphere analysis of "Palestine" illustrated, this can be just as contentious as writing about dogs (or God). My Palestine column was labelled a "racist trope" by Chronicle columnist Jay Kuten for advocating a one-state solution for Palestine -- a position that Donald Trump now also appears to be advocating.
Jay has twice labelled my column "anti-Semitic". My Jewish friends and acquaintances will attest that I may be a non-monotheist but I am certainly not anti-Jewish.
On the subject of racism, like Pipster, we are all racists. We are constantly making judgments about other people's gender, age, race, dialect, etc, etc. but like the T-shirt I once picked up at an anti-racism concert in Granada said (in Spanish): "RACISM -- Bridges or Walls?"
�When Fred Frederikse is not building, he is a self-directed student of geography and traveller. In his spare time he is co-chair of the Whanganui Musicians' Club.