One Sunday morning in 2004, my then partner and I found ourselves driving to a terrace house in Southall, London, where a dog breeder led us into his back yard. There, two jack russell puppies quivered, the last of the litter. A smooth-haired white one with a brown head and big button eyes cautiously wandered out, while her sister, the runt, held back shyly. We chose the former, naming her Pepper after the dark spot on her back.
I was in my 20s and unused to responsibility. Freaking out at this tiny furry bundle, I quickly bought every canine behavioural book I could find. But I needn’t have worried: we soon learned that Pepper was a gentle, intelligent but opinionated soul, taking a contemplative approach to life’s ups and downs. She would sit and stare at me from the sunniest spot in the room; on walks, she stayed close. Her cuteness made meeting new people easy, both in the park and at work. She shared a birthday with Madonna and, like the Material Girl, absolutely adored a photoshoot.
