This year, I inherited a stepdog. Not just any pooch, but a bear-sized, black, furry bag of love called Moby. On my local walks, he is greeted as a rockstar, and I am stopped constantly to answer questions about his vital statistics to the point where I want to print a QR code on his collar so people can scan for responses and save me the bother. “Hi, my name is Moby. I am a Newfoundland. I weigh 70 kilos. I eat a big bowl of food every day (picture attached). Yes, I look like a bear! You can pat me but please donate five dollars to my Wellbeing Fund by clicking here.”

Photo © Natalia Gusakova/Unsplash

It’s been nearly 45 years since I had a dog. When I was a kid, we had a little dachshund called Mitzi, who was fed too much and, over the years, blew up like a balloon animal. One day I took her on a walk, and we made it up the drive and along the road before she quivered, rolled over and decided enough was enough. I picked her up and carried her the long way home – all 20 metres. Poor thing, she was a nervous wreck. 

Moby is...