Maybe I’ve just been paying more attention lately, ever since the other day when the guy riding his bike with two dogs was hit by a car.

But I’ve seen a lot of folks lately riding with pooches in tow. Or vice versa.

Honestly, it’s not something I’d ever do, and not only because I don’t have a dog.

It’s not for lack of wanting, mind you. A dog, I mean. Not to ride with one.

But I married into a feline, and my wife long has been part of the slavish cult of cat. I keep thinking someday she’ll relent, or else one day I’ll put in my false teeth, rise to my full, unstooped height (with a little assistance from my lift chair) and tell her, “Woman, it’s time we got a dog,” then remember the home doesn’t allow pets and sink back into my La-Z-Boy.

But about those cycling dog-walkers … or is it dog-cyclers? After all, the cyclists aren’t walking, and the dogs are jogging to keep up.

I think I’d rather enjoy a run with a well heeled pooch, but saddling up scares me.

Reminds me of when I was a kid.

I never dared try to ride with either of the mini lapdogs my parents preferred — they probably would have liked to ride Toto-style in a basket — but my grandparents had a Cocker Spaniel that was built like a tank, and he loved to pull. He was a handful to walk.

My brother and I used to sit on our skateboards and let him tug us all over.

I thought I’d give it a try on my bike.

I wrapped the leash around one handgrip and promptly ate concrete. The pooch pulled, yanked the ‘bars all the way to one side, and down I went.

I never was described as a bright kid (until adulthood, though by then I’m pretty sure it was meant as an insult), so I tried again. And again. I fashioned fancy knots and tried different points of attachment. No luck, but lots of pain.

I gave up after, oh, 147 tries.

To this day, I’ve maintained a healthy fear of cycling with dogs. I’m not clever enough to figure out how to control both bike and hound without compromising either or both.

I’m afraid a feisty Fido would bring me down or I’d do hound harm by mistake.

I guess it’s all academic at this point, though I’d sort of like to take Miles the family cat for a drag around the block.

The more I think about it, however, I realize Miles is every bit as big as my grandparents’ cocker (Miles isn’t fat; he’s big-boned), and I think he knows I’m a dog person.

Kitty’d drag my rear in front of a speeding semi, then hop on the curb and start bathing his whiskers as if nothing had happened.

And he’d be exonerated, of course.

After all, who in his right mind would take a cat for a ride?