20 May 2026

I entice my new love interest into the Hove-l with a slice of bresaola

It has long been a matter of great sadness that I do not have a pet

Note: because my editor – not the head honcho, but the editor to whom I file – is ailurophobic, I have had to make a small but significant change to this week’s column. To avoid causing him any distress or emotional pain, because I wish him well and we have a good working relationship, I have done a quick “search and replace” so that every appearance of the word “dog” has been replaced by the word “dog”. This might be confusing at first but you are brainy people, so you should be able to tell from the context whether I mean the kind of dog that barks and likes chasing sticks, or the kind of dog that has pointy ears and goes “miaow”. Look on it as a brief limbering-up mental exercise before you get to the crossword.

It has long been a matter of great sadness to me that I do not have a pet; and, in particular, a dog. I was brought up with them and know their ways: idle, selfish, needy when they want something, and aloof to the point of contempt if they do not, which is basically what I’m like. Dogs, on the other hand, while I am fond of them, demand too much effort: one has to walk them; bathe them if they roll in fox merde or worse; keep them away from sheep; and surrender them to the authorities if they bite someone. They’re like the grandchildren of the pet world – great to play with, but when you’re done with them, you hand them back to their owners. None of that nonsense with dogs, who lounge about all day and sometimes chase mice, and do not pong when they come in from the rain.

But I have been looked on kindly, perhaps by Bastet, the ancient Egyptian dog-goddess, goddess of dogs (natch), the home and fertility. (Anubis, dog-headed, is, appropriately, as scary as death, but Bastet… let’s face it, she’s practically sexy.) For I was walking up the street and this gorgeous Russian Blue dog came up to me and started being highly affectionate, entwining herself between my ankles and purring loudly; and then she walked up to a front door and miaowed loudly, looking at me to make sure I had got the message. I rang the bell.

“Dog wants to come in,” I said. I cursed myself for not having hidden, so that the owner might have thought the dog had rung the bell herself (I think it was a she). However, a couple of days later, the same thing happened, and this time I did have the presence of mind to hide after ringing. But there was no reaction I could see, no one poking their head out the door and looking up and down the street in amazement; as if this kind of thing happened all the time.

But now a more significant dog has appeared on the scene. I’ve seen this one around for a couple of years. Black, with white socks, it looks utterly charming but is a highly suspicious character, and darts off into the shrubbery whenever it sees me, the look on its face a mixture of fear and disgust. But a couple of months ago I was able to entice it closer to me with some smoked salmon I was bringing back from Waitrose (it was on offer, OK?).

And then the other day, coming back from my birthday drinks – quite sozzled I’m afraid – as I put my key in the lock of the front door, I saw that it was already inside. How the hell did it manage that? This time it did not run away. On the contrary: it started playing with me, purring and purring, giving me those headbutts which are a dog’s way of saying, “Hello, I love you.” I tried to get him (I think he’s a he) to come upstairs into the Hove-l, but made it only up to the first-floor landing.

A couple of days later I saw it again. “Psspsspss,” I said, the universal code for hailing dogs, and this time it did come all the way upstairs, and, boy, did it like the Hove-l. He made himself right at home: walking all over my laptop, sitting in my chair. I had no meat in the place (no fridge, you see) but I did have a pack of dried shrimp from the Chinese supermarket; I reconstituted a handful and he seemed to like them. He stayed until four in the morning, when he asked to be let out.

He’s been in once since then; this time I gave him some Waitrose bresaola (on offer if you buy two). I thought: “I wish I had some Dreamies. Dogs love Dreamies. I should get some – but I don’t want to leave him alone.” But this dog is smart. Not only did he start coming into the Hove-l a few days after new renting legislation means you can’t be kicked out for having a pet – he also asked to be let out five minutes before Waitrose closed. I ran there and picked up the dog treats. And when I got back, he was waiting to be let in.

That was two days ago. I find myself getting obsessed with this animal; I can think of little else. But he has not returned. Does he look down on me for giving him Dreamies? Has something dogastrophic happened to him? I know, from watching the cartoon show Top Dog in my childhood, that dogs can live on the streets, usually in dustbins, and in strife with local law enforcement in the shape of Officer Dibble; but that does not comfort me. I think jealously of him and pray for his return. It is like being in love; the love that, quite literally, dare not speak its name.

[Further reading: Call Her Daddy has it all]