My canine companion is a bit too dedicated

Suzanne Harrington writes about her overprotective dog

IMAGINE having a dog who loves you so much, and with such unswerving dedication, that across her chest is an LAPD tattoo, “To Protect And Serve”. You just can’t see it under all the fur. She’d carry a gun, if it were legal, and would join a gym if they’d let her in — instead she has to inject her steroids at home, when she thinks nobody’s looking.

She’d love to be a police dog, but she would be so good at her job that she would cause mass involuntary redundancies amongst not just the other law enforcement canines, but their humans too — there would be no criminals left, because she would have eaten them all.

If they made a movie starring this dog, the gravelly Hollywood voice over would growl, “She is the greatest protector the world has ever seen… a majestic beast with a jaw that could crush a baby’s skull [copyright the local vet]… a merciless pursuer of all things, animate and inanimate, but especially animate... yet her heart belongs only to one… and that one is constantly on the verge of being sued.” That one is me. The object of her devotion.

I love you, says the dog, every time we leave the house. I love you so much that if anyone walks towards us on the pavement, in the park, on the beach, in the middle of nowhere, anywhere, everywhere, you need not worry. I know what to do. You just keep walking and looking into that small rectangular thing in your hand that’s always beeping, and I’ll take care of everything else. Everything. Fear not, beloved human. I’ve got this.

At home, off duty, she likes to relax in front of the Great British Bake Off while gnawing on the air dried former leg of another living creature. But even off duty, she remains a coiled spring, as anyone who has ever smooched up to me on the sofa will attest. GET OFF MY HUMAN, would be the speech bubble over her head. GET OFF HER NOW, WHILE YOU STILL HAVE A FACE. How we laughed, once the wee of terror had stopped running down the new boyfriend’s leg.

To prevent misunderstanding, this heroic beast — a hybrid between Lassie and Cerberus, if the Cerberus gene were 95% dominant — wears the latest in doggie accessories when we go out. The Hannibal Lecter Face Basket, a sort of 12 Step Programme for workaholic dogs. Relax, I tell her, strapping her face in. You’re off duty. She looks at me sorrowfully.

So sorrowfully that later I unstrap her, and let her run free with the other dog, Angelina Jolie (fabulous hair, bit thin). After all, we are miles away on a hillside at 8am on a Sunday morning. Not a sheep, nothing. What could possibly go wrong? A runner and his dog appear from nowhere. She lunges at the intruder dog, knocking the runner over. We are all in the mud, shouting. Turns out the runner is a magistrate, married to a barrister.

After I’ve wrestled her to the ground, the dog puffs with pride. To protect and serve.