YOU might have walked the walk, but can you talk the talk? Dog talk, that is.

Is it one woof for no, two woofs for yes? Does a yap-yappity-yap mean "let me out, I'm dying for a pee"? And is "oh dear, too late" a bark, whimper and a yelp or a bark, whimper, howl and a yelp?

With the help of animal behavourists from DEFRA, the Department for Everything

including Fido and Rover's Affairs, some councils are offering free lessons in how to talk dog this week as part of National Noise Action Week.

It goes without saying that City of York Council is not participating. It is far too busy polishing its giant purple people carriers. But some councils are taking the opportunity to introduce their constituents to an official DEFRA translation guide which sets out in detail what every woof and whimper means.

This might sound sillier than an attention-seeking shitzu in a sundress and slingbacks, but apparently the lessons could help to alleviate the growing number of complaints councils receive about noisy dogs - about a quarter of all complaints at the last count.

The DEFRA guide is pretty comprehensive, covering grunts, whines, whimpers, yelps, screams, howls, growls, coughs, tooth snapping, panting and barking. It doesn't mention drooling, breaking wind or leg-loving, but I imagine that is a different part of the canine curriculum and will be covered at a later date.

What about us feline folk though? Our pets might mew and screech a bit, but most of the time we have to try and ascertain their wants, needs and numerous complicated desires through moggie sign language.

To be honest, I think cats just can't be bothered. If we can't understand what their tail swishes, spits, purrs, circling, crouching, whisker twitching and claw kneading are all about, then they are just going to jolly well sleep on the window ledge, occasionally waking for a spot of emergency bottom cleaning, until we pull our fingers out and learn.

Well, I have pulled my finger out and I have learned. After closely studying my own moggies, Oscar and Felix, for eight years, I think I am just about getting the hang of this cat sign language malarkey.

For instance, when Felix leaps six foot in the air from a standing start with his claws extended, ears back and teeth bared, I believe this can be roughly translated as "someone has just sneezed four streets away".

If Oscar jumps on to my chest, repeatedly claws my best sweater and waves his pursed bottom tantalisingly close to the end of my nose it means "put down that cup of tea, you lazy moo, and get my Go-Cat... now!".

Whenever I see two quivering, furry rear ends sticking out from behind the sofa I now know this means "there is a vicious kitten/baby bird/daddy long-legs in the garden, please go and remove it forthwith".

If I see Oscar perched on top of Felix, licking his ears and nipping his neck, I know, in reality, he is whispering sweet nothings along the line of "I know you're my brother, but how about it?".

And I know from rueful experience that if Oscar shoots round the house like a furry rocket, pooping like a pop gun as he goes, it means "I don't want to cause a fuss, but this new flea collar is not really me".

The thing with cats, though, is that as soon as you think you have got them sussed, they do something completely alien to throw you off the scent.

Like weeing in a pair of floral pink wellies. What on earth do you think Oscar is trying to tell me?

Updated: 10:42 Monday, May 22, 2006