Tim Dowling: our dog is running rings round the other dogs in the park – and my wife

Unless two people come on the excursion, it is impossible to walk both dogs at the same time, because the new dog wants to go everywhere and meet everyone, and the old dog wants to go nowhere and meet no one. My sympathies, if I’m honest, are with the old dog.

For similar reasons, it requires two of us to take both dogs to the vet – the new one because it’s due for a second course of worming pills, and the old one because it’s blind, deaf, confused and pees everywhere.

“I like this new vet,” my wife says as we drive to the appointment. “I told her on the phone I just wanted to make sure we were doing everything we should be doing.”

“Yeah, exactly,” I say.

“And then when she mentioned palliative care I laughed, because it’s a dog. She didn’t laugh back.”

“I guess a vet isn’t really in a position to find that funny,” I say.

“We can’t park here,” my wife says. “We’ll have to go round again.”

In the examination room the difference in approach between the two dogs is marked. The old dog is content to sit on a table and have its heartbeat listened to. Jean, the new dog, cannot believe it’s shut in a room in a building where every other room contains at least one other dog. She stands on her hind legs, looking through the window in the door and barking.

“Jean,” I say. “Relax.”

“Heart sounds fine,” says the vet, looking into the old dog’s mouth. “Teeth aren’t too bad, stomach seems OK. Overall she’s in pretty decent shape for 15.”

“Oh good,” says my wife.

Half an hour later and £200 lighter, we lead both dogs across the road.

“It’s not like I was hoping there would be more wrong with her,” my wife says.

“No, of course not,” I say.

“And the peeing thing, I suppose it is what it is,” she says.

“Just more squalor, that’s all,” I say.

“Anyway,” she says. “Now I’ve got you, we can take them both for a walk.”

We drive to a nearby park and let the dogs loose. The old dog wobbles along behind us. The new dog, overexcited from the vet visit, barrels off in the direction of another dog.

“It’s unusual, being in the park together,” my wife says.

“I don’t usually go this way,” I say. “I normally start off up there, and do the whole thing anticlockwise.”

“Jean!” my wife screams. The new dog is trying to play with a dog that’s busy chasing a ball. When the other dog refuses to engage, Jean steals the ball and runs circles round the owner.

“Why is she so badly behaved today?” I say.

“Are you kidding? She’s always like this,” my wife says, stomping off in Jean’s direction.

“She’s never like this with me,” I say, to no one. But it’s true: on my solitary afternoon walks with her, the new dog is more subdued and more obedient.

When I turn and look the other way, I see that the old dog has wobbled off in the opposite direction, following a man who is wearing similar trousers to mine. I clap loudly, until she turns her head, bewildered.

“Stupid dog,” says my wife, returning with Jean on a lead.

“Honestly, I don’t usually have this problem,” I say.

“Good for you,” my wife says.

A hundred yards on, we let both dogs off the lead again. The new dog immediately runs over to a dog wearing a jumper, and they begin to chase each other in elongated figures of eight, kicking up clods of earth on the tight turns. For a long time the play is both mutual and equable, until Jean finally gets hold of the other dog’s sweater and tries to rip it off.

“Christ,” my wife says. “Jean!”

Meanwhile the old dog has stopped walking, and is staring intently at a bin. I reattach its lead and wait on the path, watching from a safe distance as my wife grabs Jean – a dog I now know weighs comfortably over 17 kilograms – and prises the hem of the other’s dog’s jumper from her jaws while apologising profusely to the jumper dog’s owner.

We regroup and walk on for another 100 yards in silence.

“It’s when she does something like that,” my wife says finally, “that I sort of think my enemies might have a point.”

“Your enemies?” I say.

“I have friends in this park,” she says, looking around. “And I also have enemies.”

“Really?” I say. “I don’t have any enemies in this park.”

“Maybe not,” my wife says. “But your dog does.”