What is it about Scots and breeding? The problem of too few offspring is not unique to people; Skye terriers are also failing their country. According to Kennel Club figures released last week, only 30 were born in Britain last year, against 45,000 Labradors.

This, quite frankly, is an outrage. Labradors are the chosen pets of the English green-welly county set and Hampstead yummy mummies. They are large and — whisper it — often a bit dense. Anybody is their friend, particularly anybody with food.

A Skye terrier, on the other hand, though able to match any Labrador in bin-emptying and cake-scoffing, is reserved and cautious. His affection is bestowed selectively, and only after the honoured human has passed several tests. Unlike Labradors, who tend to pant and lick, Skyes are firm believers in the quick bite, particularly if strangers touch them without permission. It is a sad day for Skyes if they really are on their way out.

Perhaps Scotland’s most famous Skye was Greyfriars Bobby, the gallant wee dog who sat faithfully on the grave of his dead master. But in the film of that name, wasn’t Bobby a west highland terrier? The sad answer is “yes”. Skye terriers seem to have spurned Hollywood, perhaps in protest at the length of the legs of California babes in comparison with their own rather-stubbier appendages.

They are know as the “heavenly breed” (though my Jack Russell terriers might have something sharp to say about that). A good Skye should, so I’m told, stand 10 inches at the withers and be “twice his height in length”. This makes them resemble walking door mats, since heaped onto their small frames are two coats, a soft undercoat and a long, tougher, outer coat. The latter requires frequent brushing or the dog does not just resemble a door mat but actually turns into one. Nevertheless, even if they are expensive on hair products, I think we owe them something.

A little like the idea of the ravens leaving the Tower of London, the idea of Skyes vanishing altogether from Britain, which is a distinct possibility, should provoke at least a twinge of regret. For a start, their origins are full of romance, supposedly involving gallant Maltese dogs, wrecked on the rocks of Skye in the early 17th century. After scrambling ashore, they were welcomed by the local terriers in the usual doggy way and, in time, produced the unique Skye puppies without which, very soon, no farm or croft was complete.

In the 19th century, after Walter Scott and George IV again made all things Scottish desirable, Queen Victoria took the dogs up — perhaps they reminded her of that hairy old rogue John Brown. What the queen found delightful was also championed by the nobility, and by 1887 the Skye terrier was registered with the Kennel Club. It seems a pity, after all that, to find numbers in the UK reduced to survival levels.

I see the passing of the Skye not only as the end of a breed but also as the passing of a certain type of rugged Scot, the type that goes out in all weathers and considers vermin as enemies rather than potential pets who had a bad start in life. A Skye terrier would surely yap with disapproval at the collecting of hedgehogs from the islands for transportation to the mainland. He would also think little of any Scot to whom a good grey squirrel was not a dead grey squirrel.

The real truth behind the demise of the Skye is that dogs bred to destroy foxes, badgers and otters now seem anachronistic — even bloodthirsty and barbaric. We have become so tolerant — or perhaps wet — that terriers are no longer allowed to do what terriers naturally do, meaning that people have drifted away from them. Even Scots with impeccably violent and clannish ancestral credentials can now be seen with those ridiculous hairless Chihuahuas or even a menacing Staffordshire bull terrier, muzzled, naturally, to prevent it barking for England during the World Cup. We now see dogs as a matter of choice rather than necessity and choose our breeds with fashion rather than utility in mind. There is even a lady in Glasgow who stalks the streets with a lookalike greyhound.

As free citizens this is entirely as it should be, but, if the Skye is not to vanish, more of us have to purchase a pooch. I can’t, since my Jack Russells would never yap at me again, but to help save the breed, could you? I am assured that Skyes are not at all frivolous, so would not damage the credibility of any Scottish intellectual, and don’t need much exercise, so are perfect pets for couch potatoes. Their lifespan is only about 12 years, which means you are not stuck with them forever. Unlike Labradors, who suffer terribly from wobbly hips, Skyes seldom have to visit the vet and are ferociously loyal. They are, in short, perfect companions, outclassing, on occasion, husbands or wives.

The practical solution to boost Skye numbers is obvious: the breed must be turned at once into the Scottish mascot, to be displayed along with the Saltire by Scots cheering for Anybody But England. Could we not also have two official Skyes posted at Bute House, trained to greet or nip, according to the first minister’s whims and wishes? If we don’t do something, and soon, the Labradors will take over. Then everybody will know that Scotland is, finally, just another country whose jaws contain not teeth but slobber. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

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