ONE LASTING THING:
THE dog

There have been many things in my life that I’ve been wont to possess: a single Methuselah of Château Margaux; forget-me-nots in spring; first-edition Goosebumps books from the 1990s.

But if anything, the current incarnation of this thing, known only as ‘The Dog’, possesses me. The runt of the litter (it’s a tail as old as time), his tiny form disarmed me on visiting a neighbouring dog’s new brood. He had a milk-chocolate coat, a piggy-pink tongue, and eyes like twin pools of liquid copper that burned straight through my jacket and instantly melted my cold dead heart.

I paid the wretched fee and zipped him into my now-holey coat.

Despite these somatic qualities, The Dog, it turned out, was no prize pup. He was horrible.

He made his intentions clear mere moments after setting his front paws on the welcome mat, promptly defecating on a third-generation patchwork quilt artfully folded over a rattan basket. He maintained eye contact throughout.

This air of chaotic disdain continued throughout his puppyhood. A perpetual barker and a runaway, his lead etiquette was atrocious, and no slipper was safe from his needlelike fangs.

In reality, his was typical young canine behaviour. Still, I remained sore about the quilt for some time. Perhaps it was the fact that once it had been laundered post-sully, the quilt – its squares hand-stitched by my great aunt Adelia during the Great Depression and passed lovingly down the bloodline – looked a little threadbare. Perhaps – more likely – it was the eye contact.

In time, The Dog grew into himself, and subsequently into every valve and ventricle of every heart in the extended family, eventually becoming its main artery. The way he can only sleep in a goose down bed; the devotion with which he chases the Amazon man; how he deftly loots entire roast chickens from the pub on Sundays and buries the bones in the landlord’s allotment – we are intoxicated. We are possessed.

As Grandfather Ron puts it, “He’s like the grandchild we never had.” As my mother puts it, “Don’t come over if you’re not bringing The Dog.”

Whilst The Dog may possess the hearts of many, he still holds a special place in his for the hand that feeds him. He is, after all, a labrador. He is very much his own labrador. And I am his person.

Corporeally, The Dog is not a Lasting Thing. And Dog knows there is only One Sure Thing. But since we’re all still here, let’s agree that whilst an heirloom patchwork quilt will keep you warm at night, a 74lb chocolate fur coat will certainly be warmer.