Low life | 13 August 2015

Toby goes to bed at 10 o’clock sharp every night otherwise he gets irritable. Toby sleeps on the bed always. Toby is too old to jump up on to the bed, so the bedroom footstool should be placed next to the bed to help him to climb up. He is also allowed up on the furniture. Toby’s food bowl should be filled every morning and his squeaky hedgehog toy should be placed in the bowl with his food, or he won’t eat. He is allowed six treats per day from the Silver Jubilee tin on the fridge. Toby likes to be patted but not stroked. Stroking upsets him and he may bite.

These were the instructions for my three-night dog-sit.

Toby is a 12-year-old, mostly white, very male Jack Russell. Although he is now deaf, touchy and barrel-shaped, one can still see that he must have been a fine-looking animal in his pomp. When I was introduced to him by his owner before she left for the airport, I stooped and gave the old boy’s head and lower back a friendly pat, plus one small experimental stroke, and he went berserk, snapping and snarling at me like the proverbial sclerotic old Major.

We spent our first evening together in the sitting room. There were two sofas, each with three cushions. On the face of all six cushions was a tapestry picture of Toby’s head and shoulders. He sat on his sofa radiating noli me tangere. I sat on the opposite one reading Take a Break and listening to the wonderful Craig Charles show on Radio 2. Every time I looked up from the magazine, Toby’s black, expressive, almond-shaped eyes were watching me intently, perhaps wondering where I stood on the political spectrum.