Best Dog in Italy

'Imagine if we won the World Cup,' said my seven-year-old grandson yesterday. 'Ah, my child,' I replied, laying a grandfatherly hand on his innocent head, 'we have won before – and I was there.' Actually, of course, I made no such reply, not least because my memories of the great victory are hazy, and I could hardly claim to have 'been there'. While the final played out, I was in fact in deep cover, in a patch of woodland in the local park, with my then girlfriend (I was sixteen, and we weren't botanising). We emerged later and stepped into a café, where the match commentary was playing on a radio. It was only that evening that I saw footage of England's dramatic victory. What I do remember – and told my grandson – is that, at some point, the World Cup (i.e. the Jules Rimet trophy) was stolen, then dug up in woodland by a dog called... what was it? Of course – Pickles. All of thirteen years ago, I wrote about Pickles and his heroic excavation of the 'not very World Cuppy' World Cup, a…