The suburb where I live is quiet and leafy and beautiful, only a quick walk to a long stretch of river, dotted with rowing boats, frequented by cyclists and power-walkers. To the other side, we have a huge park, shaded by trees and replete with tennis courts and play equipment. Both would be a joy to stroll, a gorgeous promenade for a boy and his hound.
But instead, every morning as the sun rises, my anxious, rescue greyhound, Basil, refuses to walk to either of those options. Instead, as per ancient ritual, in a tradition stretching all the way back to six months ago, we tread the same stretch of suburban street behind our house. Twice a day, with undimmed excitement and enthusiasm, we sniff the same mailboxes, trot up the exact same sidestreets to piss on the same tree, choose the exact same conservative politician’s house outside which to poo. We simply must go and look at the street where an old lady once gave us a treat. We must stand still and quivering in the alley where a cat once darted away from us. It is imperative that we sniff the drain where a dead mouse decomposed four months ago. I adore my dog but it’s driving me quietly insane.
