I never thought I’d be having therapy with my dog. Muggles and I are sitting in front of my laptop screen on Zoom, waiting for our consultation with a top dog behavioural therapist and TV star. But my gigantic, eight-year-old, white-haired golden retriever isn’t playing ball. Psychoanalysis is clearly not for him, as he’s walked off. I’m now sliding him along the soft wood floor by his front legs, eager for him to get the help he so badly needs.
Golden retrievers are known to love food, but what’s going on with Muggles is off the scale. He’s ripping open rubbish bags. He can shimmy open the kitchen bin with his paw. He’s a pro at getting into his bulk-sized bag of diet dog food headfirst if I forget to zip it shut. If I leave the fridge open for just a split second, he’ll manage to jump into it. Whenever my kids eat fish fingers, I have to tie Muggles to a sofa leg. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, but this situation is still exhausting.
