At 11pm I go upstairs to find the new dog lying on my side of the bed, stretched out lengthwise and fast asleep.
“So that’s what it was all about,” I say.
“Hmmm,” my wife says from across the bed.
“The crate training, the strict discipline, the many long nights of whining,” I say.
“I fell asleep,” says my wife. The dog opens one eye, looks at me and closes it.
“Anything so that dog can eventually learn to sleep on my side instead of yours,” I say.
“Put her in her own bed,” says my wife, “and shut up.”
I shape the dog into a donut, scoop it up, and place it in the round bed in the corner of the room.
“Stay there,” I say. The dog lets out a huge yawn with a slight yelp at the top of it and then promptly falls asleep. I crawl into bed, turn off 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 I sometimes mistake it for people trying to break into my car.
When I wake up the next morning, the new dog is chewing on my hair, a thick paw pressing against my neck to stop me from moving my head.
“I don’t like that,” I say. The dog bites my hair and pulls aside, like a sheep shearing a meadow. I push him, sit down and turn on the night light. The dog, already alive to the possibility of being fed, goes hysterical and tries to climb on my shoulders.
“I can’t do anything unless you give me some space,” I whisper. “Go there.”
The dog retreats to the other end of the room and watches me dress, standing when I do, sitting when I sit. All this time my wife pretends to be fast asleep, as I would if the shoe were on the other foot.
After putting on my socks, I walked over to the bedside table where my phone was charging. I pick it up and look at the screen. Then I turn to the dog.
“It’s 5:30,” I say.
I should note that in many ways the new dog is well behaved: good on occasion, friendly with other dogs, polite with the cat and respectful with strangers unless they are holding a rolled up umbrella in which case she will try to take it from them. But she comes when called, and will obey most commands if you can muster the right tone of voice.
“She’ll be a good dog in the end,” my wife says the other night. The dog is lying with his head on my knee, his hind legs almost reaching the other end of the sofa.
“I know,” I say. “I’m just worried that she might get some…”
“A little what?” my wife says.
“Funny looking,” I say.
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“What are you talking about?” my wife says.
“Strange, shall we say.”
“She’s beautiful!” my wife calls out.
The dog is a mongrel of disapproved origin: half labrador, half neighbor’s terrier who got in through the cat flap. As a pup she was a uniform iridescent brown – like a wet seal – with a clean white bib. But at six months, her coat is broken along a broad line running down her back, her back half is turning white in patches, and she has a goatee’s beard.
“Obviously we’re going to love her no matter what,” I say. “But if that happened to a fur coat you bought six months ago, you’d want your money back.”
“It’s not a fur coat!” my wife shouts.
“No,” I say. “And there’s no danger of her being turned into one.”
“How dare you call her ugly,” says my wife.
“I didn’t use that word,” I say. “But at this rate, she’ll look like three different dogs stitched together. Which of course will be adorable.
I lean down to stroke the dog’s ears. The dog takes my hand in its jaws, gently at first, watching my face as it applies increasing pressure.
“Ow!” I say, much to the dog’s delight.
When my wife got up the dog followed her out of the room and I was left alone with Newsnight and my thoughts. I think I’m really worried about the dog growing up so fast, in the short span of his life span and mine.
When I go to bed half an hour later, the dog is again lying on my side of the bed, this time under the covers, with his head on my pillow. Against my better judgment, I pull back the covers and slide in next to her.