This was a Downing Street coalition that was never going to work George Osborne and I seldom see eye to eye, but we find ourselves united - on cats versus dogs. In the red corner (as in tooth and claw) we have the Osborne cat of five years" standing, lying and lounging, Freya. In the blue (as in beaten black and) corner, Lola, the timid wet-nosed doggy interloper, barely a year in post. Despite best efforts, the pair did not make for an harmonious coalition, it was the Bichon Frise wot won it. And I think I speak for all right-minded folk (ie dog lovers) when I say "Yay!" And yes, alright, perhaps roll in fox poo by way of a celebration. Yes, dogs can be greedy and, if you see it that way, needy. But if you like to be needed and the dog likes to be feeded, where's the harm? Chez Osborne has discovered that cats can be spiteful. I can imagine Lola good naturedly trying to play with Freya, only to be met by a murderous ball of fluffed fur, exposed incisors and raking claws. A puppy and a kitten brought up together may love each other dearly and snuggle up in a basket. More likely after a few larky months of egalitarian tumbling, the tiny kitten establishes dominance over the great lolloping pup, who meekly accepts its lowly place in the pecking order, because that's what dogs do, bless "em. If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog, so said Harry S Truman. Osborne has done just that in Downing Street and I salute him. Libby Purves, a cat lover , begs to disagree Maybe it's a calculated political taunt. Here's an honest old-fashioned British working tabby, no doubt a fine mouser, a cheerful Rum-Tum-Tugger known to turn up convivially in Whitehall pubs and unafraid to venture south of the river. So the Chancellor exiles this free spirit, this working-class Londoner, in favour of a poncey, overcoiffed mademoiselle of a Bichon Frisé. Which would probably run away whimpering at the sight of a mouse. But maybe this is not so much Francophila as another example of the fact that a lot of men, of the more dominant variety, are uneasy around cats. They like dogs because, not to put too fine a point on it, dogs are sycophants. They wag and cower and gaze adoringly upward at The Master; they love to obey and co-operate, and when they do misbehave they accept reproof with expressions of sorrowful guilt and big-eyed melting remorse. Our old lurcher Treacle liked to sit by my husband's chair with one paw up in fealty; at the command "Adore!" she would put both paws on his knee, crossed over like a medieval knight on a tomb, and remain there on her haunches until dismissed. But the cat? Nah. Cats offer company on equal terms, or from a slightly superior viewpoint. They like a bit of human warmth when it suits them, but do not beg. Cats worship nobody and nothing. When a cat does graciously extend the paw of friendship, you feel honoured. Being accepted by a cat makes you feel special; if you fall short of expectations it will go off down the road, and probably come back as ours does, smelling of fags, cheap scent and the pub kitchen. Cats appeal to busy, independent people; whereas a dog's needy, whiny demands for walkies, coupled with its inability to go out by itself and get a life, serve only to validate people who are naturally insecure. I bet when Mr Osborne gets home after a long day, that dishmop dog of his carries on as if he was George Clooney and Benedict Cumberbatch rolled into one.