Into all order, a little chaos must fall.

Many moons ago I was listening to some golf commentary in the car. I would usually tune out and find another talk channel because I am not  a golf enthusiast, even though I have done a little caddying for boyfriends in my time.

I was a disastrous caddy. I would inexplicably find something mirthful at that key moment just before a shot and let out a concentration-splintering hyena cackle. And while I never stopped finding the world amusing, I rarely had an appreciative audience at these moments. There was no one to join me because concentration in this sacred golfing moment is almost mystical. Be The Ball, as Chevy Chase used to say.

So one might surmise that one sentence of golf commentary on the car radio would be enough to send me fumbling desperately for Radio Four, our talk channel over here.

The commentator was an affable chap called Peter Alliss, speaking in laid-back stops and starts, noting the weather and the garb of the crowd among other well-meant irrelevancies. And somehow, I carried on listening. It was a local gig. I might hear someone I knew.

They all stood on the sidelines, the crowd. Milling about with earpieces, listening to the rise and fall of the commentator’s speech, some stood at the green in question, others further up at a favourite hole. They waited with the patience only a golfing crowd could summon.

And I found myself tuning in as the commentator rambled on. My antennae, finely attuned to that moment when speech becomes relevant, fixed on his gently trailing prose. Now I’m heavily paraphrasing here: it was twenty-odd years ago, after all…

“And if you’re standing by the third green right now”, the voice informed us in relaxed  tones,” you will see there is a dog in among the crowd, receiving quite a lot of fuss from local bystanders.

“A beautiful golden labrador in the prime of life, that one.”

Listeners paused to imagine the very British scene: a pampered pooch, proud owner of one of the old two-shillings-and-sixpence dog licenses one was compelled to purchase, ambling around, savouring the atmosphere in the same way it might have earlier savoured its breakfast: with a broad grin.

The commentator went on: “Her name is Millie, and she lives at an address” (which he reeled off), “just a couple of minutes walk from here; and the reason I know this,” he finished with a perfectly intoned cadence, “is that she is my dog: and I believe she must have staged an escape.

“If anyone at the ninth hole is listening to this commentary I would be extremely grateful if they could pop her back home. Thank you.”

I have never forgotten this dog. There are many reasons to pause a game: injury, rain, a ball which ventures too far, even a streaker running with joyous abandon across a pitch: but surely the most uplifting is the dog on the pitch.

After a grey day I was sat next to my son this evening, watching old football highlights on the television. I was comfortably zoned out, paying little attention, right until the moment a dog ran onto the pitch.

The possibility of a canine visitor to a football pitch had never occurred to me. It magically transformed the play: the ref blew his whistle and there was a jovial air to the crowd’s banter. I was enchanted. I googled.

It appears this is not an isolated incident. Dogs get onto pitches with more regularity than one might suppose.

My favourite incident has a Polish commentary. It is a Polish Premier League game between Polonia and Wisla, and the play is all at one end, near the goal. It’s quite fierce. And then it all goes belly-up as the most exuberant hound appears from nowhere, bounding happily on to join in the action.

Where would something like that come from? Did some fan forget to ask their mate to look after the dog, and end up with a four-legged companion in the stands? Has it just wondered in off the streets? How did it get past the stweards?

Whatever its source, it clearly finds one aspect above all others enlivening: this is more space than a city dog is used to in a month of Sundays.

If you look carefully, you can read the body language. Tthis dog has never seen so much space. This is no long thin townhouse-lined promenade when one is attached to  a lead, but a multi-directional unfettered sprintfest.

Add to this the fact that 23 malodourous men are running around too, not overly impacting on the available space but enhancing it; toss in a crowd which seems to be having a party in a handy nearby seating area and you may suppose this hound is in doggie Utopia.

It takes the well-built Polish players some time to remove their delighted visitor from the pitch.

Eventually the goalkeeper falls into step beside it, and runs companionably away from the game. The goalie sits it down and gives it an affectionate headrub. The dog has clearly found a friend: a makeshift lead is located and the dog led off to the cheers of the crowd.

There’s a lovely instance of a great black shaggy hound stopping play at an Indian league one-day cricket game. Time ticks on as around 35 staff attempt to rein him in, but to no avail. Cricketers charge after him and throw themselves prostrate in his direction, but he is agile and nimble as only a dog can be, and he evades capture.

Eventually he takes himself off, straight into the VIP stand. The commentator notes: “That’s one way to get in without accreditation.”

Into the order of a top professional game, a little four-legged chaos must charge: and television cameras, moneymen and highly paid players are compelled to stand and concede national, and sometimes international attention to one who has probably never known scrutiny like it.

What a breath of fresh air.