Murphy

Murphy was supposed to be for the kids, but you know how it goes. Within a week he was sleeping on my bed and ignoring everyone else when I came in the door. He was daft as a brush. Chased his own tail until he knocked over a lamp, tried to “rescue” the garden hose while it was still on and once swallowed half a sock. But he was also fiercely loyal. You couldn’t move without Murphy right behind you, usually stepping on your heels. He had this big daft grin and a bark that sounded like he was saying “HELLO!” Loudly. At 6 a.m. On Sundays. Every time the post came through the door. Never once caught the postman, obviously. Just needed everyone to know someone had dared walk past his house. But when things were tough, Murphy was there. He didn’t need words. Just sat close, all warm fur and steady breathing. Like he was holding the pieces together. We gave him a send-off with sausage rolls and a tennis ball in his grave.