The monarchy begins 2004 on a reformist note. Florence, one of Princess Anne's English bull terriers, is to go into therapy after biting a maid. The Princess Royal, who will accompany her alter ego to discipline classes, has recognised that Florence may be sniffing at the fate meted out to the Romanovs and Bourbons. Death Row beckons. But for her status, the royal dog would already be as moribund as the Beagle space probe. Instead, she played a starring role in the end-of-year royal 'scandal,' which began with Pharos, the Queen's oldest corgi, being mauled to death at Sandringham. The culprit was initially named as one of Anne's other dogs, Dotty, whose previous attack on two small boys cycling in Windsor Great Park resulted in a modest 500 fine.  This time, an inquiry, which reminded one servant of a 'murder investigation', came up with evidence that a different miscreant had ignored the Orwellian sixth commandment that no animal shall kill another. Exhaustive internal questioning of the kind not undertaken when George Smith, a valet to the Prince of Wales, claimed he had been raped in his master's household, revealed the corgi-cruncher to be Florence.  The lucky verdict that the Princess Royal had two nasty dogs instead of one psychopath was shaken shortly afterwards when Florence savaged (or 'nipped', in Palace-speak) the knee of a housemaid called Ruby, who reportedly begged that the dog be spared. To wonder why this saga should have shuffled the Bam earthquake, the Parmalat dbacle and the seaweed detox diet off newspaper front pages is to miss the point.  Anyone wishing to understand the modern monarchy should study how it treats its pets. On the whole, rulers have always preferred dogs to subjects. The papillons loved by Marie Antoinette, the sacred Pekingese of the Chinese emperors and the spaniel discovered, by her executioner, in the skirts of the dead Mary, Queen of Scots, all underpin that taste. But even Victoria's habit of running her court along the lines of Rolf Harris's Animal Hospital cannot match the dog mania of her successors.  The Buckingham Palace corgi makes Caligula's horse look under-promoted. No visiting head of state or triumphant rugby player can enter Her Majesty's staterooms without being ankle deep in a writhing scrimmage of dogs which never defer to dignitaries. Elizabeth's biographer, Sarah Bradford, describes how one nervous bishop, baffled by the lunchtime feeding ritual, took a dog biscuit from a footman's salver and ate it. As Bradford notes, corgis are an inseparable part of the Queen's image.  The same goes for lesser royals and their pets. Where else can they find companions who never fawn or curtsy and whose filthy tempers mesh so neatly with their own? There is a point where this idiosyncrasy, or fetish, gets sinister. In another of the late-year furores, Professor Colin Blakemore, head of the Medical Research Council, was denied the knighthood accorded to his predecessors. The rejection is believed to be due to pressure from the Prince of Wales, who apparently had Blakemore banned from an official reception. Charles would not, he said, shake the hand of a vivisectionist. That refusal, if true, validates the loathsome criminals who threatened Blakemore's children, vandalised his home and posted him a letter bomb because he approved of using animals in experiments to save human life.  Anti-science meddling by an heir to the throne who presumably favours cats above sick children casts doubt on his wider judgment. Equally, the Princess Royal's loyalty to her horrible dogs sheds light on the contradiction between the charity patron who accomplished 293    engagements last year and the nit-picking employer who, according to the Mirror 's palace mole, called a diary clerk 'a fucking incompetent twat'. Clinging to dogs who savage little boys and housemaids' knees seems to settle the question.  The royal family has carte blanche to rip off the nation, but not to tear its flesh from its bones. The princess's bull terriers should therefore be put down forthwith. This, I know, is not a universally held view. The Windsor paradox is that a dynasty which treats its subjects loftily and its servants shoddily has a brilliant grasp of petshop populism. The monarchy, whose love of dangerous dogs makes it indistinguishable from thugs terrorising inner-city estates, is also plugged into a broader cult of animal worship.  Last week's news that chimpanzees in Uganda and Tanzania have recently killed eight children and torn the limbs off others provoked little outrage. The chimps' apologist, a conservation biologist, ascribed this dietary quirk to changes in their natural habitat. 'They are just trying to get by,' he explained.  In the British courts, a Mr and Mrs Musselwhite are suing Safeway, claiming that their dachshund, Muffin, suffered a slipped disc after jumping to retrieve an unsolicited supermarket flyer from the letterbox. In the semis of England, as in its palaces, pets matter. Fears that the atomised society might prompt Britain's seven million dog owners to opt for lower-maintenance animals, such as leaf-cutter ants, have proved unfounded.  Launching a range of luxury pet accessories just before Christmas, Warner Brothers announced that people who delay having children are 'spending the money on their dogs and cats instead'. Hence the demand for 900 satin dog coats studded with Swarovski crystals and diamond-encrusted platinum collars, costing 12,000.  This waste of money is as obscene as the dog mess befouling British pavements. It is also part of a dottiness, incomprehensible to responsible dog owners, that preserves Princess Anne and her obnoxious pets from being more widely labelled as menaces. Florence's 'think first' therapy may work, but last week's poor results from the Probation Service's 73 million pilot for human aggressors do not bode well.  If only the Windsors' taste for change and rehabilitation extended beyond the kennels, the country might really be better off. As the New Year begins, the Fabian Society is seeking to build on the recommendations of its monarchy commission. In a modest step, there are plans for a private members' Bill, introduced in the Lords with cross-party support, for abolishing male primogeniture, removing the religious bar on the heir marrying a Catholic and repeal of the Royal Marriages Act, under which the monarch must approve all unions.  Cabinet papers released last week revealed that Lord Kilmuir, the then Lord Chancellor, wished to abolish the Act in 1955, on the grounds that it was 'out of harmony with modern conditions'.  The Windsors, and the Government, are not yet for budging. Sex and butler scandals have done the royals no obvious harm, while the dog furore has enhanced the image of a bereaved queen. Even Anne may earn some kudos from Rotweiler vigilantes. Another, more widespread, current of opinion thinks the real scandal of the Windsor's winter holiday is that of an aimless, self-indulgent, over-rewarded clan, cooped up with their dysfunctional dogs in a publicly subsidised, privately owned palace, tax-exempt and used once a year.  To us, the prospect of Princess Anne and her dog attending a canine offenders institution is a symbol of hope for the coming year. Whether or not the Windsors realise it, the monarchy also faces the choice confronting Florence. Reform or die.