JENNI MURRAY: How dare my son tell me that 73 is too old to get a new puppy!

A few months ago, a casual conversation with my oldest son Ed, the vet, completely changed my life. As some of you may know, I have chihuahuas that I adore. There was Butch, who broke my heart when he died two years ago at the age of 15. Now there’s Frieda, a 17-year-old grand old lady, and eight-year-old Madge.

I said to Ed, “You know I’m a little worried about Frieda. She’s really slowed down. I’m not sure she’ll last much longer. I think I’ll need a puppy to keep Madge company while Frieda’s gone.”

My son glared at me and said, “Mom, have you lost your mind? Are you having a puppy at your age?’

I was too shocked and hurt to react. It’s strange that you don’t think of yourself as old when you clearly are to everyone.

I thought about it for a moment and realized that Ed would worry that if I died, he would have to take responsibility for my animals.

After a moment of sympathy for his concern, I was overcome with anger. I am 73. ‘At my age’ indeed!

It was not just the unwelcome implication that I might not long for this world for much longer that angered me—no one wants to be reminded of their impending doom—but also the assumption that somehow I was unable to make for a busy beast. , and even that I was selfish for wanting the company of dogs.

I must confess I was thinking about myself, but also about Madge. I don’t want her to be alone. I’ve never kept an animal that will be alone when I go out. After all, I still have a busy social life. The kids are gone. I have to make my own pleasures.

Nothing could have made me more determined to plow through and find my next Chihuahua. First I saw one advertised on a Facebook site promising chihuahuas for sale. I have contacted. I was asked for money and the dog would be placed with me. I’m not crazy enough not to notice a scam staring me in the face.

Next, I went to a more reliable site, Pets4Homes, and came across a little black and white chihuahua whose eyes seemed to say “Buy me.”

I called the breeder, Luisa, who lived only half an hour away from me. The puppy would be ready to leave the house in two weeks when she was two months old. I got in the car and sped off.

Of the four puppies, it was the little black and white that came running up to me, jumped on my knee, licked my face, and took a sip of my now-cold coffee.

She was running around the flat with such excited energy and curiosity. I knew she was mine. “What are you going to name her?” Luisa asked. “Minnie the Minx” was my immediate response.

Two weeks later I picked her up and introduced her to the rest of the family and a new environment. Frieda appeared in the ‘Are you crazy?’ to be my son. camp, suggesting we were both way too old to handle all this youthful energy. Madge sulked in her spot in the corner of the couch – obviously jealous from day one. The atmosphere was reminiscent of the day when a mother brings home a new baby to meet an older sibling. There is an instant recognition that the baby will take away all the attention.

Minnie tried to be friends but failed. She wisely avoided the cat like the plague.

She has been with us for four weeks now and has lightened up my life. She loves the garden and brings many small sticks. Messy, but if she’s having fun, who cares? She is good at going to the toilet on the puppy pads – messy too, but bending over and picking up is good exercise for my ugly back. Sometimes she goes to the toilet in the garden with the ‘big’ dogs.

Frieda is not won. She growls and barks at Minnie’s attempts to get her to play. Fights over food can result in serious fights with the two fighting each other like champion wrestlers. Fortunately, Frieda has no teeth left, so she can’t tear Minnie’s head off, although I’m sure she would love to.

Madge drops by the little dynamo and I make sure to give her lots of hugs.

It took Minnie a few hours to figure out that you had to go up the stairs if you were going to share a bed with Madge and Mommy (me). Having her with me meant no nightly crying. She adjusted as if she had been with us all her life.

Son number one, Ed, has not met her yet. I think he will get to know her when he reads this!

Number two, Charlie, came by, saw her and said, ‘My goodness, what’s that? Couldn’t you get a real dog?’ No one understands my passion for these little creatures or my willingness to spend hours teaching Minnie to sit, stay, and fetch. She is coming and we are going to puppy class now that she has had her second shot.

She fills my life with so much joy and laughter. It is wrong to assume that an older person should not take on the responsibility of a dog. They keep you active, engaged and feeling needed.

It is impossible to be lonely when you know they will always be there with unconditional affection.

I just hope I can survive her. If she lives as long as Frieda, I should make it to 90. It’s now my mission to get there!

I used to hate pink. But now…

Barbie wears pink. Of course she does, which is why Margot Robbie, who plays her in the new movie, has to promote the movie adorned with the color I’ve always hated.

“Pink for a girl and blue for a boy” has always put me on edge. Funnily enough, I went to our local Last Night Of The Proms on Sunday in the only pink piece of clothing I own – a sweatshirt that was the only thing left clean.

A handsome young man talked to me during intermission and said, “You look really beautiful tonight.” It might be time to rethink my opinion on pink!

When will NatWest close my account?

I just wonder how long it will take for NatWest, who I’ve banked with for over 50 years, to close my account.

The bank is a member of Stonewall, so will undoubtedly disapprove of my gender-critical view that a man cannot change gender and become a woman.

Why don’t banks stop being crazy and do what they’re supposed to do: provide branches we can visit and raise interest rates for those of us who have entrusted them with our savings?

• Best news of the week? A group of millionaires have written to the Prime Minister proposing ‘a serious injection of capital’. . . of the richest’. Good on them. It remains to be seen if the wealthy Rishi will be thrilled with their proposal.

Wimbledon is better on TV!

I’ve been to Wimbledon twice on the invitation of the BBC. Would I pay £10,000 for tickets? Would I stand in line for five hours while baggage is checked? Would I pay £10 for a glass of Pimm’s or £2.50 for strawberries and cream? No.

I know from my own experience that you see more on television – and if you watch it at home, you’ll never get wet in the inevitable downpour.