Life with a dog

Our family had pets when I was growing up, but I didn't get my own dog until I was 30. Throughout my twenties, I'd been pretty happy, but when I was about 27, things changed. I became stressed and unhappy, was drowning myself in work, suffering from insomnia and drinking too much.

One hot summer afternoon, I set off for the dog pound with the aim of getting a small, female dog. I came home that day with a big, black hairy male dog, beside whom the furniture shrank to doll's house proportions.

Within a week he'd shat in seven different places on the carpet, knocked over drinks, vomited lavishly on the bed, tried to bite the vet, and snarled at every dog we passed in the park. His tail was full of burrs and twigs, but he wouldn't let me brush it. I wondered how I would deal with the shame of returning him to the dog home.

Within a few weeks, however, he began to settle down. He'd greet me happily when I came home, and would walk calmly beside me. Gradually, he grew to trust me enough to let me brush his tail, and eventually was allowed off the lead in the park.

At first, he'd stay so close behind me that his cold nose would bump again my calves. He'd wait outside shops, staring fixedly at the door till I returned. At home he'd follow me to the toilet, pushing his head against my knees so I could rub his ears while I peed. If I shut the door on him, I'd hear his wet nose snuffling along the floor under the gap.

The routine of walking him in the middle of the day made me get work and it's place in my life back into perspective, the fresh air made me less pasty, and I met people in the park who gradually became fixtures in my life, making me feel part of a community of dog lovers.

Before long, I was cured of my ills and completely content.