By Karan Thapar

Perhaps the world consists of two types : those who love them and those who don't. I'm afraid I fall into the latter category. But not my family. And not the British either.

I thought this admission would help explain the story you're about to read. But don't get me wrong - I'm not making excuses. Only providing you with a little advance context.

Socks was a little puppy who adopted the family in the early '80s. Named after the white ankle-height patches on his otherwise jet black coat everyone considered him cute. And I have to admit puppies are. But like all babies, he was always there and always wanting to play. So after a bit his presence got on my nerves. That's when I decided to do away with him.

One day I popped Socks into the car. Poor devil, he thought it was his lucky day. We headed for the Ashoka and there, in a far corner of the car park, I opened the door and let him out. He bounded. As soon as he did,, I shut the door and left. I thought I had seen the last of Socks.

The family was furious. But a deed such as this, once done, cannot be reversed. I bore their recrimination in triumphal silence. I might be a monster but Socks had been dealt with. Most effectively, if you ask me.

I was sitting in the garden the next afternoon, in the warm winter sun, when I discovered how short lived my success had turned out to be. I heard a little "woof" and it sounded uncannily familiar. At first I thought I was imagining. It couldn't be. But the feel of little canine jaws snapping at my ankles was unmistakable. He was back. Someone had retrieved Socks and brought him home.

Twenty odd years later I've discovered a kindred spirit in Hemang Badani. It happened by accident.

At a recent interview, Hemang told me a story about himself and a stray puppy when he was five years old. The little dog would follow him around, snapping at his heels, tugging at his shorts, darting in and out of his legs but never, never going away. He sounded just like Socks. Hemang, however, was more decisive than I.

One day, no doubt exasperated, Hemang picked up the little pooch and threw him into a well. There was one in the garden of the home where he lived. On camera I made the right demurring noises but inwardly I applauded Hemang. This man, I said, is better than I ever was.

The pooch, of course, was soon fished out and none the worse for his dunking. But Hemang forgot to say so and I forgot to ask. To be honest, neither of us cared. What happened to the pooch was irrelevant. What mattered was how the problem he presented was tackled. And, anyway, I thought it was a good story.

Now this is where the real world catches up.

"Christ!" moaned Pervaiz down the line from London. He's one of the commissioning editors at the BBC. The interview had been done for them. "What a horrible story!"

"Horrible?" I was perplexed.

"Karan" Pervaiz continued. He sounded as if he was talking to a particularly dim child. "It's not a nice story. It's disturbing. One doesn't go around throwing puppies into wells."

"Oh" I said, the penny dropping. "But it was only fun!"

"Not for the puppy." I could tell Pervaiz wasn't amused. "Trust me on this one. Cut it out. I promise both you and Hemang will be glad I asked you to."

I suppose the problem is that those of us, like Hemang and I, who don't care for dogs fail to realise how deeply others do. Of the British it's said - with only slight exaggeration - they care more for their pets than their children. Certainly the dog food on London shop shelves seems a lot more enticing than anything on offer for humans.

If you ask me, this is one of the big differences between Indians and Britons. They love dogs - actually anything on four legs. It's the two-legged animal they can't stand. We, on the other hand, are wary of canines. Or felines. Or any animal.

In our cavalier attitude, Hemang and I are Indian. Pervaiz, with his sense of shock, is British. Of course, my family thinks Pervaiz is right. So do my colleagues. Oh yes, and Socks too!