Hyperactive burglar alarms are one of the curses of modern urban life. It's true. You're relaxing at home when, suddenly, a gust of wind causes the defective model on the house down the road to go off for the 27th time this year. Half-an-hour later, the noise is drilling a hole in your head, writes Frank McNally
Unfortunately, the owners are at work, so you know it won't be stopping any time soon. In the meantime, the possibility that the alarm is responding to an actual intruder does not occur to anyone - least of all the local gardaí - because it has cried wolf so often. If there's a burglar passing the house, now would be the perfect time for him to break in.
All this is true, as I say. But I happened to be jogging in a remote rural area one evening of late. And it occurred to me that the old system - the one that electronic house alarms have replaced in most towns and cities - was, if anything, worse.
The thing is, in all my years of running, I have never yet managed to activate a burglar alarm simply by passing a house. Given the speed I go at these days, the risk of it happening now is probably negligible. Yet there I was this particular night, shuffling gently along a quiet back road, and I set off every damn dog in the countryside.
Now, I concede that dogs have had a long and distinguished role in the home security sector, especially in rural Ireland. Years before the likes of Eircom Phonewatch got in on the act, every farmhouse had a wire-free, 24-hour monitoring service, usually known as Shep.
Even the most basic models came with an alarm. The more vicious ones boasted optional extras, such as hair that stood on their backs as they approached - a feature that deterred not only burglars, but visitors in general. Some deluxe models also offered a service that involved biting the tyres of every car that passed, even when it was doing 60 miles an hour.
But one of the problems with four-legged alarm systems was that they didn't need a gust of wind to set them off. Postmen, the neighbour's cat, a full moon - everything was an emergency to an excitable dog. This eventually left the species vulnerable to competition from the electronic alarm, which was marginally more selective about what it reacted to, and had the added advantage that, even left unsupervised, it would not kill sheep.
Of course, the fatal weakness of the four-legged alarm was that it could be deactivated by an unscrupulous burglar. He didn't have to know the security code, the secret password, or even the factory default settings. Half-a-pound of minced meat laced with sedatives, and the system would usually be switched off for as long as he needed.
Nevertheless, the dog remains a popular anti-burglar device in some parts. And whatever about burglars, it can still have a debilitating effect on joggers. For one thing, there's the tension of not knowing if the barking animal is locked up, and therefore harmless, or if at any moment, it will come dashing out of a laneway and mistake your ankles for the tyres of a slow-moving car.
Then there's the noise. The countryside was lovely and peaceful that night as I started running. Then the sound of my footsteps sparked the first dog into action; a second one reacted to the first; and soon every dog within a five-mile radius had joined in.
Say what you like about defective burglar alarms - at least they don't set each other off, until an entire housing estate is howling. Before I could even break sweat properly, I had to curtail my evening's exercise. Between embarrassment and fear of attack, I was so tense I risked tweaking a hamstring.
In urban areas, most dogs are now kept purely for companionship or - with some of the rarer breeds - as part of interior décor schemes. But even when the animal has no role in home security, its alarm can still go off at all hours, and for no apparent reason, especially when owners are at work. At worst, this can be a source of tension between neighbours.
That's why news of a new variety of Prozac, specially designed for dogs, is so exciting. According to the Daily Telegraph, dogs that bark incessantly, especially while their owners are away, are often suffering from "separation anxiety". Happily, clinical trials on a pet-specific form of Prozac suggest it can significantly reduce such behaviour.
Not everybody thinks this is a good thing. The Telegraph's "Pet Agony Aunt", for one, suggests that drugs should remain secondary to retraining under the aegis of a "qualified pet behaviour counsellor". Another expert warns that as with humans, Prozac could have unintended side effects on some dogs.
But the drug, which is poetically named Reconcile, is soon to hit the market anyway. It is only the first in a whole range of pet products planned by the pharmaceutical giant Eli Lilly, apparently. And on behalf of all joggers, I hope the company is working on a spray-on, fast-acting form.