We used to have a black retriever called Owen. My father later told me he’d never wanted a dog; he was a surprise from my grandparents. My toddler sister would ride the big friendly beast’s back and he’d oblige, covering us in drool and bouncing excitedly whenever we came home. He loved us. One day my father collected us from school. He told us Owen was dead. He’d died on the way to the vets and had crapped himself in the car. I remember thinking how serious it must’ve been for him to do that and not get shouted at.
