In the spring of 2024, my boyfriend and I lay in bed scrolling through photos of puppies. What about this one? Or that one? We had only been dating for six months or so, but had become besotted quickly, making long-term plans and talking about our future.

Then I found the one: a scruffy, small terrier with black and brown markings on his back that looked like the world map and eyes like Galaxy Minstrels. We named him Dennis to connect him to my mum’s terrier, Beano, because she was ill at the time and I’d failed to provide her with a grandchild. A puppy was the consolation present.

Within three months of sleepless nights (me) and accidents on the carpets (Dennis), my boyfriend decided to leave. I was left holding the baby. Whoops, I mean puppy. This had not been the plan.

Single life with a puppy was harder than expected. Dennis and I took to marching around the park and nearby woods, endless walks as I stomped through heartbreak and made futile attempts to train him. But I was distracted from my sadness by this small, bouncy, intensely disobedient dog. He raced after every squirrel, made enemies with the park geese and flung himself into the algae-covered lake with all the glee of a small child jumping into a swimming pool.

Dennis was on continual alert for foxes and once chased one into a building site, only reappearing after nearly an hour, plastered with mud, during which time I wondered a thousand times over whether getting a goldfish might have been more sensible.

If I left my foam earplugs on my bedside table he ate them. He also devoured spiders and the odd stray sock. All the wastepaper bins in my flat had to be lifted on to the nearest table or windowsill to prevent Dennis from rifling through them and eating a tissue or an old toothbrush.

And then I started dating, another interesting experiment when you have a young puppy. During an amorous moment in my bedroom, my date suddenly froze and looked uncomfortable. “Dennis is licking my leg,” he said. Dennis was, briefly, banished to his crate in the sitting room. Fortunately that guy wasn’t put off.

In Tony Parsons’ new book, Man & Dog, about his late spaniel, Stan, he writes that life is so much better with a dog but easier without. I laughed in recognition when I read that line. Without Dennis, there’d be no logistical stress, no vet dramas, no worrying about him eating yet another sock or pair of pants, but my life is also immeasurably improved by him.

Dennis travels with Sophia everywhere.

I talk to Dennis almost constantly, since, as a journalist, I work alone. He comes with me to interviews and always, even with the frostiest of celebrities, helps break the ice. Although he did once fart on Jilly Cooper’s sofa. “It doesn’t matter a bit, does it darling?” cried Jilly, clutching him closer to her. “He can do whatever he likes.” That definitely seems to be Dennis’s general policy and I love him for it.