THEY say things happen in threes, and it turns out it could well be true for man’s best friend as well as us humans.

It all began as the hound, who was visiting for the weekend, and I went on our early morning constitutional around the back streets of Old Town.

This is where he picks up his Facebook messages at each and every lamppost and in return updates his status with a little gentle widdle. It’s laborious - walk two paces, stop, sniff and wee, walk two paces, stop, sniff and wee - but he seems to enjoy it.

Our walk began with some urgency and I could tell a number 2 was on the cards as the dog always pulls ahead, as if he’s got somewhere very important to be as a matter of urgency, and develops a curious John Wayne swagger.

Having rejected several likely spots (he’ll only go on grass, for some unfathomable reason) he eventually settled on a grassy bit at the base of a tree... and managed instantly to plonk himself in the middle of a great big stinger which meant now, mid action, he was left waving his back hind paw in the air and balancing precariously with a look of alarm and confusion on his face.

How I laughed... until I realised a humble poo bag offers no protection from a great big stinger. Thanks, dog.

Trauma over, we returned home and it being a glorious morning, the dog, his human and I headed up to Barbury Castle to take in the fine, sweeping vistas of Wiltshire.

Following a tip-off from a friend, we decided not to go to the fort itself, but carry on a little further down the track and saunter along the Ridgeway. Which was a mistake because it was pockmarked with potholes the size of craters and the car got a thorough battering. More of which later.

The Ridgeway was magnificent and for once not too blustery, and the hound ran like billio, played with a Labrador, had a bit of a sniff of a poodle and even got the chance to say how do you do to a horse.

The idyll came to an abrupt end, however, when, as we set off in the motor with thoughts of breakfast in mind, it started making the most ominous rattling sounds.

“Doesn’t sound right,” said my fellow human.

“Sounds most definitely wrong,” I concurred.

So we pulled into the car park, looked under the car and found oil pouring on to the ground. An hour later, following an ice cream for breakfast from the Mr Whippy van, the breakdown guy turned up and did what breakdown guys do: popped the bonnet, looked at the engine, sucked his teeth and pronounced the car a goner. “That’s a new engine, mate,” he said, shaking his head.

And before you could say carburettor, the dog was experiencing his second Bad Thing of the Day.

Breakdown Guy wouldn’t let the hound into his truck so he had to ride in the car, on his own as it dipped and bucked along on the back of the tow truck. Not having any common sense, it was a good 10 minutes before it occurred to him it might be safer to lie down, so there we were in the safety of the van watching a small black dog staggering around trying to keep his balance and looking alarmed that nobody was driving the car and yet it was most definitely moving.

Safely back home, the rest of the day passed without too much incident, although his human’s sudden departure on the train to collect his log book so he could scrap his car and my Sunday afternoon shift in the office did little to calm his nerves.

No wonder, then, in the night that he was a tad restless and went from his basket to my bed (lots of circling and stamping on human flesh and harumphing) several times before having a thoroughly good pace around the bedroom at God knows what o’clock. And this is when the Third Trauma occurred.

The hound has developed a talent for passing wind in a silent but deadly manner. This has no effect on him (he usually does it as he slopes off the couch, paws on the floor, bum in the air and leaves us bipeds to suffer the consequences).

On this occasion, however, he delivered rather a noisy one and made himself jump and then stare accusingly over his shoulder as if to say ‘who did that? where are you?’. He did it twice and spooked himself both times. You’ve got to love a dog who’s scared of his own farts, even if he does keep you awake at night.

Personally, I think this all goes to prove that dogs really are man’s best friend.

His owner, in the space of a couple of days, had seen a work project soar in cost and time, his boiler pack up and his car die a death. Clearly, the hound was just joining in with his own trio of traumas. Now that’s loyalty.

Which one will leave the best taste in the mouth?

I’M not allowed to write about politics at the moment because it’s Purdah time, when newspapers have to be careful not to sway people in any political direction in the run-up to an election.

However, I have heard much discussion about tactical voting, and am tempted to go that way myself.

Morally I object to Wine Gums (let’s use sweets, instead of political parties) and in my heart of hearts, I’m an out and out Smarties voter. However, I don’t think much of the leaders of the Smarties at the moment and wonder if they’d be any use negotiating our way out of the EU.

That leaves me with the Werthers Originals, which are a bit insipid but not morally obnoxious. So I could vote for them in a bid to stop the Wine Gums or the Smarties from running the country... but the problem is, so many of us in this country live in safe seats where our vote makes no difference whatsoever.

I, like many people, feel that my vote is irrelevant because of the way our voting system is set up. Let’s make this the last election whereby the Werthers Originals, say, could get more votes than the Wine Gums and yet end up with fewer seats in Parliament.

Democracy is more important than ever given the momentous journey upon which we are embarking. Proportional representation would go some way to help it.