Jules Howard's Blog

The extremes of the climate crisis mean it’s harder than ever to provide a garden haven for birds, insects and other animals. Some gardeners are questioning whether trying to do the right thing is time well spent

More than two decades ago, I had the honour of running the world’s last (possibly only) frog telephone helpline. No, this is not a set-up for a punchline. It was a real service. Gardeners would grab the Yellow Pages, dial the frog helpline number and physically manifest, using their voice, sentences most of us would type into Google today: “If I dig a pond, will frogs come?” callers would ask, or: “How can I make my garden more attractive to amphibians?”

My role was simple. I was to fire these callers into action, offering realistic guidance on how gardens could be made more suitable for wildlife, especially frogs. Froglife, the charity that owned the helpline, saw in gardens a way for more amphibian habitats to be secured, away from the countryside which was then (and is still) being ravaged by pollution, land-use changes and more. And so, paid a minimum-wage salary, I spoke to 9,000 callers over a period of about three years.

The writer of a new book about life on Earth seen through the prism of the egg says the age-old paradox actually leads us back a billion years – to the bottom of the ocean

The chicken or the egg? Sometimes, as a zoology author, I am asked this question by the kid at the front with the raised hand and large questioning eyes. Sometimes it’s the older guy at the back with a glint in his eye. Sometimes it’s a student who approaches the lectern at the end of a lecture while everyone else files out. The same mischievous eyes, the same wry smile. “So which came first?” they ask, beaming, unaware that this is not the first time I have been asked.

I hadn’t foreseen, years ago, when I began exploring the evolution of the animal egg and the role it has played in the long history of life on this planet, that it would become pretty much the only question I would be asked. I spent years reframing the evolution of life on Earth as a story told from the egg’s perspective, tracing this strange vessel’s adaptation to land, its movement across continents, the evolution of the umbilical cord, the evolution of the placenta, menstruation, menopause… but even now, having finally turned this journey into a book, I expect that a great deal of my dialogue with readers will be chicken-based.

Yes, I used the L-word. How else to put it, as evidence stacks up for the inherently social nature of our closest companions?

Sometimes I see it in the big moments; often it’s in the small. The fact that Oz (our black-and-white lurcher) would rather sleep under the kitchen table when I’m writing, even though the sofa is by far the comfier option. The way he rolls on to his back when I greet him each morning, exposing his chasmic armpits for a tickle. Or the way he makes sure to lick and nibble both of my earlobes, left then right, with snuffling gusto.

What other word is there to describe these joyful moments than love?

With the rise in dog ownership has come a rise in doggy noise. Could interpreting their growls and yelps make life more harmonious? And how do you stop them barking at delivery drivers?

The interview begins in uneasy silence, as we stare across at each other from our comfy armchairs. It is not exactly Frost/Nixon, because he is a dog. Being up on the furniture should be a treat for him, but we lost that battle long ago.

I repeat my question again: “Why do you bark so much?”

Dogs can carry bacteria and parasites, while cats smuggle in gory ‘presents’. So is it best to lock them out of the bedroom?

Vomiting on the bed. Snoring. The shedding of hair. The stealing of sheets. The passing of wind. Night-time face-licking. A higher-than-average chance of catching sarcoptic mange …

If I could sit my dog down and quietly explain the risks associated with him sharing the bed with us, this is the list I would read to him. But I know he wouldn’t listen. Oz, our young lurcher, would only warmly reimagine that scene he recently saw. When, on my birthday, the family let him come upstairs and on to the bed to wake me up. When he saw, for the first time, Upstairs Land. And then widdled with joy.

From dogs and cats to parrots and rabbits, our pets have got used to having us around 24/7 during lockdown. As life gets back to normal, here’s how to save them from loneliness and stress

Like an apocryphal butterfly flapping its wings and unleashing untold chaos thousands of miles away, one miscreant virus particle is all it took to alter the human-pet dynamic across the globe.

In this lockdown era, many animals initially thrived, like my own cat, Junior. Although he had always known me as a commuter who frequently spent nights away from home, he took to my newfound permanence like a duckling following its mother to water. He loved it so much that, when restrictions eased after the first lockdown last summer, he developed a suite of anxiety-related behaviours.

The PM says counting these protected amphibians is a barrier to economic recovery. But there’s room in the pond for both

First, I should lay down my cards and show my hand. My name is Jules, and I am a card-carrying fan of newts. I have a pond. I once ran an amphibian helpline for people with questions about newts. I have worn a newt costume at family events. I can’t stress this enough: I genuinely like newts.

Earlier this week, newts featured in Johnson’s Build, build, build speech – where plans were announced to revive Britain’s flagging economy with a programme of construction – housing, hospitals, prisons, roads, schools. But this wasn’t a star turn for newts. Far from it.

This rhetoric pits nature against economic development and reduces us all in the process

Related: We found newts right where we are: Ed Sheeran v the amphibians

They are time-keepers, normality-bringers and playthings. Here’s the science behind how cats and dogs help support our mental health

Let’s start with some live updates from pets across the country. As I write this, I’m informed that Oscar the dog is delighting in hoovering up the extra scraps from under the kitchen table after the kids have eaten their home-school snacks and lunches. Morph, another dog in a different house, has become a regular pillow for a one-year-old. Yet another dog, Angus, is spending the afternoon in the upstairs bedroom, watching dogs running around in the park. The dogs there run wild and free, their forlorn owners caged in invisible two-metre boxes. Meanwhile, someone else informs me that her dog, Molly, is barking profusely because she, the owner, has gone momentarily out of view. (Molly is now used to her human cohabitees always being around). And then there’s Ada. Ada is barking very loud because she always barks very loud. And many, many dogs are barking because their humans are having important Zoom meetings that must not be disturbed.

In another house in another part of Britain, two rats called Celeste and Casio have been given free rein. Their owners see no reason to keep them caged, as they are all housebound now. Sally (a canary) has begun chirping incessantly while Netflix is on, while a tortoise called Claude cares not a whit about global events.

Anxiety can result in them becoming destructive, chewing at doors or windowsills, as well as household furniture

The smash-hit documentary lets the murder-mystery take centre stage. But it also cunningly conceals a powerful message about the cruelty of small-scale zoos

The “man with questionable fashion sense inflicts abuse on cats” category of true-crime TV has a new monarch: the Tiger King himself, Joe Exotic. This seven-part true-crime doc is a smash hit for Netflix, and that’s no surprise – it’s arresting, gripping, horrifying and jaw-dropping in equal measure. To parrot Mrs Merton: oh Netflix, what drew you to the story of the polyamorous, power-ballad singing, gun-toting, murderous tiger-collector Joe Exotic?

Related: Murder, madness and tigers: behind the year's wildest Netflix series

Many animal-lovers think a cat or dog can help you live a longer, happier, healthier life. But does the science back them up?

My childhood dog was called Biff. Biff was a handful. He was a loud, cocky shetland sheepdog who oozed bravado and bravery. Yet, underneath it all, he struggled with the dog version of impostor syndrome. Biff was a bag of masked insecurity. He was like the kid in school who says he has seen all the scary movies, but refuses to go to any sleepovers where scary movies are played; the kid who has “a girlfriend at another school”. It was that fragile side I especially loved about Biff during my teenage years. We shared an insecurity that neither of us had the cognitive skills to put into words. This was a friendship – one that lasted as he grew older, grumpier and more infirm.

He was an exceptionally licky dog, and loved nothing more than slurping his tongue over our jeans, shoes, socks and coats. Officially, this behaviour was something we attempted to quash – but, every few nights, I would tiptoe into the kitchen and allow him to lick my naked hands and wrists to his heart’s content. For me, the sensation was tickly and calming, and never once disgusting, even though those around me told me it was not a good idea, mainly because it was highly likely that, on any given day, Biff had stuck his snout into some poor fox’s rotting cadaver. I didn’t care. I washed my hands like a surgeon afterwards, obviously. But it was what Biff wanted.