While I am watching the news, the old dog and the new dog roll into the room like a ball, end over end, growling and snapping at one another. The brawl is pretty evenly matched: the dogs are the same size, and neither has any traction on the wooden floor.
“Gently,” I say. They take no notice, rolling once round the coffee table, over my ankles and back out of the door. I remember this stage from 14 years ago – back when the old dog was a puppy – but I had forgotten how it grated on the nerves.
I had also forgotten how much having a puppy is like having a baby, in that you spend an inordinate amount of time trying not to wake it up. Everything productive about my day happens when the puppy is asleep. Every other moment is spent engaged in some form of damage control. At least a baby will not gnaw your TV remote until it’s beyond use.
“She’s really very well behaved,” my wife says.
“Yeah, I know,” I say, while the puppy sits on my lap and playfully bites my hands with its tiny piranha teeth. Both my forearms are covered in dainty puncture marks.
The routine is, at least, becoming familiar: every night I bolt the puppy into its cage, and every morning I wake up wearing it like a hat. There follows the usual hysteria of mealtime number one. I have never known a dog so obsessed with food. I have never seen a dog so thrilled to take a pill.
At least the cat and the new dog have finally reached some kind of accommodation. The cat moved back inside when the weather got cold, spent some time living a paranormal existence, creeping between empty rooms, and finally stood its ground one evening over a disputed bowl of cat food. The puppy came off badly, and the cat now goes about its business unmolested.
The same cannot be said for the old dog, which is forced to endure the puppy’s attentions round the clock. As they roll back into the room, snarling and snorting, it’s impossible to tell the extent to which this particular engagement is consensual.
“Stop,” I say, turning up the volume on the TV. The remote, rough with chew marks, does not respond. The snarling ball rolls behind the sofa. There is a blissful moment of silence while the two dogs take stock, then fighting recommences and the dogs tumble out from the other end.
When I decide the old dog has suffered enough – which is roughly when I have suffered enough – I pick up the new dog, put it outside the room and shut the door in its face. I sit back down and make another, ultimately doomed attempt to turn up the TV. The old dog rolls back on to its feet and gives me a weary look.
“Would it help if I said that none of this was my idea?” I say. I hear my wife talking to the puppy on the other side of the door.
“What are you doing out here?” she says. “Are you in trouble?”
“Yes,” I say. The door opens and the new dog runs in, leaps on to my lap and snatches the remote from my hand.
“What was it?” my wife says.
“Just the fighting,” I say.
The new dog leaps off the sofa on to the old dog. They roll across the rug, bounce off the opposite wall and head back towards me.
“It begins again,” I say.
“I remember this from last time,” my wife says. “When the old dog was the new dog.”
“Do you happen to remember how long it lasted?” I say.
“A few months maybe,” she says.
“But the old new dog stayed small,” I say. “In a few months this puppy is going to be the size of a pony.”
“Never!” my wife says, snatching up the new dog and cradling it. The old dog sits down and pants, staring at the ground. My wife walks out of the room with the new dog looking back over her shoulder. Just like a baby, I think.
Half an hour later, the old dog and the new dog are still in a ball, only now fast asleep, wound round each other on the sofa next to me. The news is over, the remote will not change the channel and there is a single beer in the fridge that I have been thinking about for 20 minutes.
I lean forward over my feet. The new dog stirs. I wait for a long moment, frozen in position and then, exhaling silently, I start to stand up. The new dog opens an eye and looks at me. I sit back down.