I love all dogs – but I just can’t get on board with Britain’s favourite breed

What do Tom Cruise, Martha Stewart, Monty Don, Mikhail Baryshnikov, Jackie Chan and Ronald Reagan have in common? None of them can resist a certain type of blonde... dog, that is. I am, of course, talking about golden retrievers: those biddable beasts with big brown eyes and silky, honey-coloured fur.

But it isn’t just celebs who are total suckers for their charms. According to YouGov’s ratings collection, golden retrievers are the most beloved dog breed in the UK – with 78 per cent of all British people stating so. And if you’re Generation X, like me, that figure rises even higher. (Must be all those good girls sat at the feet of Blue Peter presenters throughout the Eighties and Nineties; we had it drilled into us.) Forget vaping madness – the country is in the grip of a raging retriever addiction.

Except, for once, me. While I love all dogs, no matter how hard the yappy little ones, the ugly ones and the neurotic lockdown cockapoos might make it, I’m afraid retrievers just don’t do it for me. They are the wholesome Instagram-surrendered-wife of pets. I want a dog with spirit – not a docile Muppet.

I get the appeal – oh boy, do I. When I visit my brother’s family, I look upon his dear golden good girl with envy as my two unruly, hard-to-train and insatiable rescue bitches climb on the roof, steal Christmas dinner off the carving board and hurtle after cats – but not before rolling in fox excrement. In fact, I come home frequently to pressure hose three types of s*** off my Spanish podencos.

While I’m suffering daily cortisol beatings off my two, my brother’s sweet Frieda sits looking quietly up with big moist eyes, radiating oxytocin and other good vibes. When I look after her, she sits beside me; true, devoted and kind, while I whistle and coax my two oiks back to their leads.

While my brother’s golden retriever is waiting to be accepted into the Great Ormond Street Hospital therapy dog programme, I’m just waiting for mine to, well, come back.

YouGov’s ratings collection is described as the “biggest and boldest attempt ever made to quantify what Britain thinks”. And what we think about is golden retrievers and York and Only Fools and Horses and Ronnie Barker and Peter Kay. Quality – but nothing that will scare the horses, or, indeed, chase sheep. Is there a more “normcore” dog than the retriever? I hate to say it, but retrievers are a tiddly widdly bit boring.

More seriously, as veteran breeder Margaret Woods tells me, “while they are excellent working dogs, they make fantastic pets. Biddable, great with children, loving and trustworthy.” Like Monty Don is the perfect man, goldens are the perfect pets. But wherever we see a popular breed, she says, “unscrupulous breeders, or ‘greeders’ as we call them, are not far behind”.

This has spelt trouble for the golden, and no one is better placed than she to comment, as health coordinator at the Golden Retriever Breed Council. “Greeders jumped on the bandwagon,” realising there was money to be made from a nation of silky blonde dog addicts. “They do no health checks, no screening, they have no knowledge; they just put a golden retriever with a golden retriever. I doubt they even wish for the best. This means a higher likelihood for hip and elbow dysplasia, blindness, epilepsy, the sort of conditions us conscientious breeders have been spending 50 years trying to breed out since the inbreeding, particularly between the two wars, highlighted the faults in the breed.”

The “greeder” exploiting the British appetite for a golden has led to a pact between all the country’s reputable breeders, that none of them will sell a puppy for more than £2,500. “Before Covid, they cost around £1,200. Now you see them for anything up to £4,000. Anyone asking that price should ring alarm bells. Start asking questions. In fact, always ask questions before you see the puppies because once you’ve seen a golden retriever puppy, no one can resist it.”

Yes, there’s something kinda “normcore” about the retriever. It was imagined into existence by a hunting-and-shooting Scottish laird – the first baron of Tweedmouth – who took all the best characteristics of water spaniels, red setters, bloodhounds and labradors but with none of the annoying exuberance. But the retriever has been domesticated so expertly in recent years, it’s lost a bit of its bite – though not literally; dogs should never bite. “Did you hear that, girls? And GET OFF THE BLOODY KITCHEN TABLE!”

So, if you are suffering from retriever mania, may I recommend you try a much cheaper happiness drug – I mean dog. The Spanish podenco costs nothing to buy if you rescue one, and I can guarantee you’ll never be bored. Or indeed, relaxed.