How to raise a puppy and confuse dognappers

Like the rest of Britain, we have a lockdown puppy. Her name is Waffles. She is a black and tan Norfolk terrier, she cost a month’s salary and she is the light of my life.

In January, I had a vision. It was this: Waffles sleeping in my study while I spent the rest of my life working happily from home. It seemed pretty perfect at the time.

I had plans beyond this dog catching endless winks on her Snoopy bed at my feet, but nothing very onerous: I wished her to be house-trained, friendly and come when called. I also wanted her to love me above all other creatures in the world.

So I set out to achieve this vision. I read half a book on puppy training. Then I read H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald, which was gripping but irrelevant because puppies are clearly nicer than psychopathic goshawks.

I spent the first five nights on the sofa in the kitchen. I didn’t sleep, but Waffles loved it. On the sixth night, happy with my work, I returned to the marital bed. She cried all night and it broke my heart — I had visions of camping in the kitchen for ever — but after that it was fine.

Lots of people said, “It’s like having a baby, isn’t it?” Not remotely. In my experience, having a baby is fraught with anguish and exhaustion. Even the happy bits are poignant. (Our son was born with a terrifying life-long condition, but I expect most parents feel similar.) It took us two years to persuade Rufus to sleep through the night; like God, Waffles rested on the seventh day. Besides, you can’t bribe a baby with salami.

The training book says there are only two reasons why a puppy won’t do what they’re asked: 1) if they don’t know what you’re talking about; 2) if they lack motivation. Examine this wisdom closely and you will notice it applies to everyone, everywhere, all the time, but it’s useful to bear in mind when you’re in the park.

Parks are dangerous. At first, I was worried she might run off and get squashed by a passing car. But I’ve nailed that. If I pack enough salami before leaving the house, she feels inspired to come when called. Shouting “Waffles” across an east London park takes courage, but I can usually muster that. Her incorrigible friendliness is the problem. I don’t mind her talking to other dogs — she’s tiny and submissive, she doesn’t start big fights, it’s fine. It’s the people.

I’d like to say that since Waffles arrived the women of Hackney have been flinging themselves at me left, right and centre. But it turns out that everyone does it. Even big men with tattoos are smitten by us. And that would be OK, I think — except my local park is full of dog thieves. There’s a sign nearby that says, “Reward for safe return. No questions asked. Elderly owner desperately searching,” and then a picture of a hostage pooch. Everyone talks about these dog poachers. They go in all lovestruck — “What breed is she?” — then punch you, cut the lead, snatch the hound and gouge out her microchip back at home. It’s a national problem.

I talked to a professional dog walker about the dognappers and he said: “Their hands should be broken.” While I don’t take such a hard line, I do take precautions: I tell everyone we meet that Waffles is a worthless mongrel and dying of cancer. In fact, she’s in the pink of health and posher than me, but if it deters predators, I can handle the worried looks.

So far, Waffles has not lived up to my vision. She loves me but no more than she loves the postman, and she’s not allowed in the study because she wees in it and chews the wires. But she’s better than I hoped. In the absence of any government or god worth following, she is a role model. Her mornings, for example: wake up full of the joys of spring, go for a sociable walk, breakfast, go back to bed. She lives entirely for pleasure; she adores everyone except cats. When I grow up, I want to be Waffles.

Alexander Gilmour is the FT’s Food & Drink editor. Follow Alexander on Twitter @AIMGilmour or email him at alexander.gilmour@ft.com

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