All of Willow’s dog toys have one ear. Tattered, misshapen, with synthetic stuffing poking out of them, they are scattered around an otherwise immaculate front room in north-west Norfolk, a telltale sign that a puppy lives in the house. There are other signs too: a new lead on a hook in the hallway; a still shining food bowl in the kitchen; a plush, hardly slept-in dog bed by the sofa.
Willow the golden retriever isn’t actually a puppy – she is three. But, as far as her new owners can tell, she never got the chance to spend her youth tearing the extremities off dog toys. So now she’s making up for lost time.
