Lynne Truss - Telegraph My dog has recently become (officially) a "Caring Pet," and I can't tell you how proud I am of him. To be fair, he didn't volunteer for the job. He didn't put up his paw when someone asked, "Which among you would like to do hospital visits?" He didn't say, "Me, me, pick me!" To be completely honest, I think he still doesn't quite know what's going on. But he likes it and he's good at it. Once a week, we drive to a local place, and I put a little high-visibility jacket on him, and we go inside and some elderly people give him a pat and a cuddle, which is his idea of a great day out. Take me there! Take me there!" he begs. Would you like a drink of water? Water? Hey, a drink of water. That would be FANTASTIC! Of course, the idea of these visits is that they are good for the patients and inmates. It's nice to have a dog lick your hand when you're not feeling great. But I'm beginning to suspect that I get a lot more out of it than anyone else, including the patients. The thing is: I come away afterwards energised and positive; meanwhile the dog comes away completely drained. "I have given," is his floppy body language for about six hours after. And there is no doubt about it: the performance energy that goes into that single hour must be right up there with Lady Gaga. During his recovery period, I tiptoe about and offer devotional titbits, like unto a temple handmaiden. Interestingly, when I first told friends about the dog's new role (and new yellow jacket), it was the jacket they mainly latched on to. "I bet you can get him into Waitrose with that on," they said - an outrageous suggestion, I thought, to pass him off as some sort of guide dog and flout the well-known admittance rules of a reputable supermarket chain. But once I'd let the idea sink in, it occurred to me that if I added a hard hat or a peaked cap to the outfit, that yellow jacket could be a passport into many interesting places: he could pass, perhaps, for Architect Dog, Ambulance Dog, Customs and Excise Dog, or even Airport Runway Dog (with Bats!). We would never get very far in our deception, of course, because he's only a foot tall and wags his tail at everyone. But there would be a sweet moment as we bluffed our way through doors marked "Authorised personnel only," and I indicated his little yellow jacket as proof that we were allowed in. I do worry that he gets no choice in any of this; that I'm exploiting his good nature. To assuage my conscience, I have started referring to our hospital trips as "pimping the dog." It's the same misgiving I have when I hear of "hero" animals getting medals for military work. While it is virtuous of us to acknowledge debts and spread awareness, it's outrageous to imply pigeons agreed to a job that involved flying through hails of bullets, or that dolphins joined the Navy and then swam boldly forward (standing on end, and going "Eeek-eeek-eeek-eeek") when the request went out for underwater suicide bombers. In a recent book promoting Battersea Dogs" Home, it is evidently a source of considerable pride that many dogs who died for king and country in both world wars were donated to the forces by Battersea - at the same time as it's made very clear that lost or abandoned animals have never been given over to vivisectionists. Well, what a big moral can of worms that is. The trouble with dogs is, they say yes to everything. Fancy a walk? Yes! How about licking up these leftovers? How about a stint in the Foreign Legion? Oui! No wonder they are so good at making people feel better.