At 11pm I go upstairs to find the new dog lying on my side of the bed, stretched out lengthways, fast asleep.
“So this is what it was all for,” I say.
“Hmmph,” my wife says, from the other side of the bed.
“The crate training, the strict discipline, the many long nights of whimpering,” I say.
“I’m asleep,” my wife says. The dog opens one eye, looks at me, and closes it.
“All so this dog would eventually learn to sleep on my side instead of yours,” I say.
“Put her in her own bed,” my wife says, “and shut up.”
I form the dog into a doughnut shape, scoop it up and slot it into its circular bed in the corner of the room.
“Stay there,” I say. The dog lets out a huge yawn with a little cry at the top of it, and then promptly falls asleep. I crawl into bed, turn out the light and drift off listening to the wheezing of the old dog sleeping on the other side of the door, a noise so loud that I sometimes mistake it for people trying to break into my car.
When I wake up the next morning the new dog is chewing my hair, with a fat paw pressing down on my neck to stop me moving my head.
“I don’t like this,” I say. The dog bites down on my hair and yanks sideways, like a sheep cropping a lawn. I push it off, sit up and switch on the bedside light. The dog, now alive to the possibility of being fed, becomes hysterical and tries to climb on to my shoulders.
“I can’t do anything unless you give me some space,” I whisper. “Go over there.”
The dog retreats to the other side of the room and watches as I get dressed, standing when I stand, sitting when I sit. Throughout this my wife pretends to be fast asleep, as I would if the shoe were on the other foot.
Once I’ve pulled my socks on I reach over to the bedside table where my phone is charging. I pick it up and look at the screen. Then I turn to the dog.
“It’s 5.30,” I say.
I should point out that in many respects the new dog is well behaved: good on the lead, friendly with other dogs, polite to the cat and respectful with strangers unless they’re holding a furled umbrella, in which case she will try to take it off them. But she comes when she’s called and will obey most commands if you can muster the right tone of voice.
“She’s going to be a good dog in the end,” my wife says that evening. The dog is lying with its head on my knee, its back legs reaching almost to the other end of the sofa.
“I know,” I say. “I’m just worried she might be getting a bit …”
“A bit what?” my wife says.
“Funny-looking,” I say.
“What are you talking about?” my wife says.
“Quirky, let’s say.”
“She’s beautiful!” my wife yells.
The dog is a mongrel of unsanctioned parentage: half labrador, half next-door farmyard terrier that got in through the cat flap. As a puppy she was a uniform, iridescent brown – like a wet seal – with a neat white bib. But at six months her coat is broken along a broad line running down her back, her rear half is turning a speckled grey, and she’s sporting a beard like a billy goat.
“Obviously we’ll love her no matter what,” I say. “But if this happened to a fur coat you’d bought six months ago, you’d want your money back.”
“She’s not a fur coat!” my wife shouts.
“No,” I say. “And she’s in no danger of being turned into one.”
“How dare you call her ugly,” my wife says.
“I didn’t use that word,” I say. “But at this rate she’s going to end up looking like three different dogs stitched together. Which will, of course, be charming.”
I reach down to stroke the dog’s ears. The dog seizes my hand in its jaws, gently at first, watching my face as it applies increasing pressure.
“Ow!” I say, to the dog’s delight.
When my wife stands up the dog follows her out of the room, and I am left alone with Newsnight and my thoughts. What I am really worried about, I think, is the dog growing up so fast, about the brief window of its lifespan, and of mine.
When I go up to bed half an hour later, the dog is once again lying on my side of the bed, this time under the covers, with its head on my pillow. Against my better judgment, I pull back the duvet and slide in beside it.
