Which is how, a week after first laying eyes on a big, scruffy dog with no name, I find myself driving back to the rescue centre to collect Harry and bring him home. I’m excited but apprehensive. I’ve never owned a dog before, or any kind of pet, so I’ve been doing lots of reading up about what to expect, especially with Harry being a rescue. I also spend an absolute fortune in the local pet shop. I had no idea how much stuff you need. Still, I’m someone who likes to be prepared, so I’m feeling quietly confident as I park the car at the rescue centre and go in to collect him.

Plus, as I sign the paperwork, Brenda points out that today’s date is the fourteenth of February. I’m not one to care much about Valentine’s Day, but surely that’s got to be fortuitous.

Except ours is not exactly what I’d call an immediate love affair.

First off, Harry refuses to get into the car. After a real struggle, I succeed, only to get half a mile down the road before he throws up all over the back seat. Then, when we stop at the traffic lights, he suddenly transforms from old and docile to completely ballistic, barking his head off and body-slamming himself against the window, trying to get to a ginger cat sitting on a wall. Finally, on reaching home, he refuses to get out of the car.

I think it’s when I’m standing in the pouring rain, trying to coax him into the house and getting soaked through, that it begins to dawn on me that the reality of rescuing a dog isn’t going to be quite how it appears in all those jaunty, heart-warming shows on TV. Me and my new buddy, bounding joyfully around in the garden, playing fetch with a ball or cuddling up together on the sofa, a picture of contentment.

In fact when I eventually manage to get Harry through the front door and close it behind the both of us, I fully realize how completely naive I’ve been. Fearful and anxious, he’s unable to settle and paces around, whining. It’s distressing to witness, and obviously deeply distressing for Harry.

‘Come on, boy.’ Patting his new basket enthusiastically, I wave some of his organic chicken treats to try to tempt him. ‘It’s delicious – look, it’s the breast, all white meat.’

He barely even sniffs it as he limps around in endless circles. I watch helplessly, my spirits sinking. He hasn’t eaten a thing since we got back from the shelter, and that was hours ago now. Still, that’s not surprising, considering the journey home. I wince at the memory of him being carsick. Poor Harry. Poor Fiat. Despite scrubbing it for hours when I got home and spraying it with an entire bottle of the expensive perfume David got me every Christmas, that upholstery is never going to be the same again.

Still, I never liked that perfume; it gave me a headache, so there’s a silver lining of sorts.