Teddies, hats, sourdough and jam doughnuts vanished mysteriously, without trace. She could snuffle a bowl of quinoa in the time it took me to change a nappy

I had arrogantly assumed that, as a vet, I knew everything there was to know about dogs. Verity proved otherwise. In 2017 I stopped working to raise my young son and cope with debilitating bladder pain. Six months later a sad dirty white pug entered our lives and changed everything.

I had hoped for an active, independent dog to revive my broken spirit, but it soon became clear Verity was the exact opposite. After she howled for three hours for the first five nights, I almost drove her back to the rescue. Together with my son, she shadowed me incessantly; we moved from chore to chore, a suffocating, inseparable trio. She objected vehemently to my taxing preoccupation with dog walking, adopting the inertia of a great dane when presented with the prospect of the great outdoors. We limped along like an unhappily married couple.