Meet Deuce
(pic courtesy Bharani Rao)

In the long spell that I was dead, Paris finally allowed an anonymous Golden Retriever-some loafer off the street with great pedigree but without the good manners to ask permission to do my dog. In fact, he knocked her up without so much as a by your leave, and when I meet him again, I'm going to chase him with an air gun and then demand child support from him.

The woman is like a freshly watered field. Because two months later, she produced seven puppies. All that look in the general vicinity of cute, cuddly, yellow fur balls that I could just swallow whole and then walk around on a puppy-smell high for the rest of my life. In fact I had to ask the huge dust bunny under my bed to take a paternity test because FUCK those little piddlers are soft and cuddly.

Six of the seven have already gone to homes where they will be served honey and waffles at the breakfast table and be allowed to never shake paw with anyone for the rest of their lives. The seventh, Deuce Bigalow, came to us. Despite his looks, Deuce is a kind of leather-jacket wearing, hair gelled into a ducktail and kiss-me-girl puff in front, cigarette smoking kind of dog. You cannot discipline him without him ducking down, raising his rear in the end, tossing his head and barking in a way that says "Buckle down li'l darlin'! Ain't no worlds were ended because someone pissed on the floor. Now why don' we both go for a beer, turn around the floor a bit and then get reel cosy huh?"

But there are also times, when after a belly full of Cerelac, he just wants to pour himself onto any available surface of your body and quietly watch FRIENDS reruns with you. It is this soft side that I believe will make him tattoo a single tear drop near his left eye, so the girls know that he's like you know, all sensitive and all.

Despite Deuce treating our home like his private lavatory, the biggest change in our lives has been Paris's new personality. She has suddenly turned into this long-suffering, all miserable woman who gave us the best years of her life and stayed up cooking for us past one in morning because if she didn't do it, then who would, certainly not our father! She pretty much has this expression on her face all day long. Except that she is usually also plastered to the side of my leg as if to say, "You don't seriously think you're going anywhere without me do you?"

The greatest tragedy of her life has been that after two years of existence (about ten in her case) she suddenly has to start behaving like a dog. And do despicable things like come to people when she's called. Show some affection for humans even when they are not armed with a biscuit or bone. Realise that if she sleeps for 22 hours a day, there is a good chance that someone will mistake her for furniture. And when someone throws a ball, actually catch it. Because if she doesn't, there's someone younger, cuter and with a great deal more attitude to do it.