The freeholder of my two-bedroom flat in west London is the picture of upper-middle-class churchgoing decorum, bookish and ladylike. So her reaction to my announcement that I was getting a dog was completely unexpected: “Christ, no! The last thing we need is more shit everywhere.”If I had hairs along my backbone, they’d have been up, much like those of my lurcher, Wolfy, when he spots our neighbourhood psycho dog on the other side of the street. Being the sensible human I am, I reassured her that the dog would be trained to do what twee people call “his business” in the long grass of the park. She relented, if only slightly, muttering: “We’ll see.”Three years on, old Wolfy is a much-loved member of…

Source: The Times February 18, 2018 00:06 UTC