The air is warm, the sun is shining and the dog is capering across the bedroom, claws clacking against the floorboards, under the impression that 5.30 in the morning counts as morning.
“Stop it!” my wife says, from somewhere under the duvet, but the dog continues to prance and spin, celebrating the promise of the day ahead. Four weeks ago we thought it was about to die of some weird mystery ailment; a month later the dog is not just healthy but jubilant, and we are daily forced to endure its newfound appreciation of the little things.
