Regular readers will know that, following independent financial advice last year in the face of banking scandals and continuing volatility on world stock markets, this column restructured its investment portfolio, buying an 8.5 per cent share in a greyhound.
It seemed like a shrewd move at the time. But after early optimism, the investment has performed sluggishly. Figures just released show that third-quarter earnings were nil, same as second-quarter earnings, which followed first-quarter earnings of between nil and damn-all.
The dog's under-performance has been due in part to an ongoing weakness in what market analysts would call its right shoulder division, which have made the overall dog unprofitable, except to the vet. A tendency to find trouble like a Fianna Fail government has caused him to aggravate the injury in races; resulting in long lay-offs, during which the syndicate's initial bullishness has given way to bearishness, followed by dog-in-the-mangerishness, and so on.
But I've been inundated with a request for an update on the dog's recent progress, which has indeed been exciting. First there was his come-back race two weeks ago when, for reasons best known to themselves, the bookies made him favourite. The syndicate had no reason to think he would win; but the bookies do have one big advantage over us, in that they know what they're doing. So we backed him heavily.
Our dog was composed in the traps - always a good sign. Unfortunately, he remained composed for some time after the traps opened and for a while seemed in two minds about participating at all. When he joined the race eventually, there was time to catch only two of the other runners before the finish-line intervened and yet more of our money went up in smoke. (That's just a figurative expression, by the way, but the air in the enclosed areas of dog tracks is about 78 per cent nicotine.)
The good news is that he survived unscathed and was entered to run again last week. By which time I had taken a mature decision that no more of my money was running with him. And sensing this, of course, the ill-bred little cur finally won.
He won despite again missing his break, apparently having nodded off in the traps. But he battled back from last place and closed on the leaders with every stride until the line, where - we all agreed - he finished second, by a head.
That's what the naked eye saw, anyway. And to add insult to injury, I missed a second chance of a profit when the announcer called a photo finish and the bookies again offered odds - much thinner now - on our dog winning. But I didn't back him then either because no matter how many times you looked at the replays, he was second. Until, that is, the announcer said the magic words: "Result: a dead-heat".
And sure enough, the still-photo confirmed it. By a quirk in the laws of physics, our dog's nose (part of my 8.5 per cent) had hit the winning line at precisely the same moment as the other dog's. And although my nose was out-of-joint, it was impossible not to be caught up in the excitement. There were even tears in some people's eyes (mainly because the flashier syndicate members lit cigars to celebrate, reducing visibility in the bar from about four feet to three).
Our share in the prize money was £60. Some people thought we should frame the cheque, others that we should just get a photocopy for posterity. But the solemnity of the occasion got to everyone, and there was a vote to cash it immediately and spend it on drink.
Still on the subject of animals chasing mechanical objects, the most poignant story of the week was surely the one about the French zoo director fatally trampled by a hippopotamus. It was a tragic incident, of course, but I doubt many people could have read the report - as I did in Wednesday's Herald Tribune - without amusement at the news that what caused the hippo to charge in the first place was his sexual excitement over a passing tractor.
The hippo - whose name was Komir - was "in rut", a dangerous state in which males will engage in mortal jousts with other males at speeds of up to 25 miles an hour. But the newspaper report is uncertain whether the hippo thought the tractor male or female (it would have soon become clear had he caught up with it), saying only that he mistook it for a rival or a potential partner. Either way, the French were typically understanding. "It was a crime of passion," a zoo spokesman is quoted as saying, while another worker was more definite: "Komir had always been jealous of that tractor. He saw it as competition."
But speaking of big dumb brutes on the rampage brings me to the subject of the Rugby World Cup (a daring link, that, but I think I pulled it off), and the news that French prop Franck Tournaire has been cited for biting an opponent's cheek during France's thrilling victory over New Zealand. I believe I saw the incident at the time, and while it wasn't clear on television that the Frenchman was actually biting, he was certainly getting very intimate with his opponent. I'm sure the French would see this as a crime of passion too. But there was one aspect of the incident that went unremarked: its potentially provocative effect on the home crowd - the game was played in London - given the continuing row over France's refusal to eat "unsafe" British beef.
My point is that I doubt if any French player would have bitten an English opponent with the same enthusiasm. But of course I could be wrong.