The Dog

This is Phoebe. She was born in 2020. A COVID puppy. 

A chow chow pup wearing a Christmas bib

She cried the entire journey from Lincolnshire to Berkshire…

…and defecated in the car.

Forced social distancing – from the litter. The reality of forging a new bond beckoned.

To say she harbors her enthusiasm, would be an understatement. She wears a countenance that would be the envy of Jack Dee. I respect it.

Few things can puncture her aloof mien like a chattering squirrel. She transforms into a rampaging hare in full pursuit. Which used to be entertaining…

…until it wasn’t.

In 2022 she won first prize in a waggiest tail contest at a local fair. She waggled somewhat. But even if she hadn’t, it was still a shoo-in. Like bringing a peacock to a pigeon contest.

Young children often mistake her for a lion, or a bear. She’s far more gentle, but disdains petting, unless you’re part of the pack. The adopted pack.

She’s observing me as I write this, in 2026. From a distance. Hugging the skirting board at the top of the stairs, like a giant 30Kg sausage roll. Her face belies an unspoken bond.