IHAVE regularly battled with my daughters over their reluctance to do anything (or worse to allow me to do anything) that may turn out to be "embarrassing".

Unhelpfully, anything that is visible or audible to a third party seems to fall into that category. I am a great believer in the maxim Honi Soit qui Mal y Pense, the motto of the Order of the Garter. Edward III uttered those words (Shame on him who thinks ill of it) to his courtiers, who sniggered when a lady's garter fell off. He picked it up and put it on his leg to underline their shallowness, founding thereby the noble order.

However, I do draw the line when my pets embarrass me. And they do so regularly, particularly our 18-year-old cat, Rover, who as a fit and feisty black young lad about town caused us considerable embarrassment when he conned two other households into believing that they owned him too, a fact we discovered when we saw him exiting the window of a house half a mile away.

We eventually sorted that one out by convincing the well-intentioned would-be adopters that he had been taking bed and board with us for some years, ever since he and his brothers had joined us as kittens. Now he is ancient and gaga, and has forsaken his ablutions entirely, he wanders around the local tracks looking emaciated and unkempt, despite nine dinners a day, and attempts to convince all and sundry that he is cruelly treated. He does this by simulating death.

He lies around the place like a bag of old bones and declines to move even when slavering dogs rush up intent on mayhem. This, of course, confuses them and they back off, while he lolls impassively watching them. A risky, but seemingly effective, strategy.

Today a delightful and kind neighbour knocked on our door to ask my wife if she knew who owned a poor, bedraggled cat that she had seen drinking out of a muddy puddle in the woods.

My wife, known as soft touch for the halt, lame and furry, guessed immediately the identity of the said bag of bones, but before she could begin to enlighten our concerned Samaritan, the dishevelled spindle-shanks ambled round the corner yelling "Where's me dinner", which he does at least 40 times a day.

"There it is, poor thing!" she cried.

I told you embarrassing!

We hope and trust that she left reassured.