Now that I have dogs of my own, it seems disloyal to write about how much I loved Glenn. He wasn’t even my pet, strictly speaking: he lived with my neighbour, a German who had moved to the same corner of eastern France. But we were miles from town and often shared essentials: eggs, coffee, chainsaws, dogs. Peter gave me a lead, for the times Glenn came to visit, and taught me basic commands, such as “Komm!” and “Sitz!”.
It suited all of us. Glenn, named after the American band leader Glenn Miller, was a big border collie – four or five years old when we met, bursting with energy, and usually in need of distraction. We lived down a dirt track in the Vosges mountains, and there was little for Glenn to do except guard Peter’s chickens. He didn’t have much of a work ethic, latching on to passing ramblers and following them for as long as they would let him, or until he scented something more interesting. He once trailed a family of strangers all the way to their holiday home, two or three hours away, at which point the grumbling father loaded him into his car to drive him back. It was the only way to get rid of him.
