Alfie came to live with me when I was still in my last relationship. He was more my partner’s dog (I felt somehow guilty that I wasn’t going to give him babies) so we decided to get this idiot from the RSPCA. We were well and truly catfished. On their website he looked about springer spaniel size. He is not springer spaniel size. He’s a mastiff/pointer cross with zero awareness of his gargantuan stature. He smells unbelievably bad—even straight after a bath—he sheds to a point that I don’t really need carpet, he makes the most disgusting mouth noises all the time, he’s really difficult to walk because he’s so strong, he’ll steal food whenever he possibly can… I mean he’s basically King Dickhead of the Dogs. An utter twat.
When my partner and I split up, I thought we’d at least share “custody”—or whatever you call it when it’s about a dog. But no. Despite all the “I love my boy, I’ll miss my boy so much,” King Dickhead became my sole responsibility. Of course he did. I was so resentful at first. Irritated that I’d been put in this position. Annoyed. Bitter, really. But over time, things slowly changed. In his own, disgusting, smelly way, he’s somehow slobbered his way into my affections. You know how Charlotte in Sex and the City ends up with her lawyer husband whom she finds all at once repulsed by and drawn to? It’s that. And since my kids have one–by–one upped and gone, Alfie and I have become closer and closer. He’s watching me type this, right now. Like he knows.