Grab this end

Golden retrievers were bred in the Scottish Highlands to swim out into cold water and bring back a duck without bruising it. Captain meets you at the door.

There are two ways this can go. He can take a soft mouthful of your sleeve and escort you inside, hanging on gently while you set down your keys and find somewhere to put your bag. Or he can bring you something: a towel, a chew toy, a sock, whatever was nearest when he heard the car. Either way, you’ll be wet.

The offerings have broadened over the years. Baseball caps, which none of us wear. Small creatures, deceased and otherwise. A wrench. The cleat off my cycling shoe.

Last week he was waiting in the front hall with a six-inch statuette of Winston Churchill from Connor’s shelf. He held it by the feet, the way he holds everything, so the useful end was pointed at me.

“Here. Grab this end.”

Churchill hung upside down between us and dripped on the hardwood.

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