My middle daughter is a veterinarian. We’ve known she would be a veterinarian since she was about eight, an event I accepted as pretty much a done deal the first time she sat down at the dinner table and announced autopsies were fun and the internal organs of small animals were “cute”.

Rather than fight the inevitable, while she was still at school I allowed Secondborn to take a job at a local vet clinic as a kennel hand, on the strict understanding she would not bring home any of the merchandise.

She swore an oath to this effect which lasted for a whole 10 days before she arrived from work with a ginger and white kitten who’d been marked for execution, and which Secondborn announced she just had to save, or clearly, the world would stop turning. Me, being the cruel and unsympathetic beast I am, stuck to my guns for all of about oh… 30 seconds… before caving in and saying: OK, you can keep it.

I was then required to mind (as in feed and pay for)  the aforementioned cat for the next 12 years, waiting for Secondborn to finish high school, take a year off and then spend another 6 years at university, until finally she could graduate and take custody of her furry little friend.

Anyway, Jojo is now happily residing with her rightful owner, but some things are just inevitable… like me buying useless shiny things, the sun coming up tomorrow, and Secondborn falling for cute condemned animals…

Her latest acquisition is Bruce, a pit-bull/mastiff cross who, at 6 weeks old, is already 4kgs (that’s over 10lbs). He will probably grow to be roughly the size of a Shetland pony.

She takes him to work with her, has enrolled him in puppy school — where she was planning to keep her occupation a secret from all the other mums and dads, except they all turned out to be owners of her patients LOL — sends me long emails and photographs documenting his every move and then rings me to tell me the bits she forgot to put in the emails.

Apparently, she was going to call him Kevin, but decided he looked like a Bruce.

I shouldn't be surprised by his name, I suppose. After all, she's the one who named the cat, Steve.

At least he's not a pink hippo!

And my cat (well, actually she's my man's cat - she occasionally shares her love with me) is also called JoJo but she's a blue burmese.

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