The love of my life has luxuriant black hair, a playful demeanour and an excellent sense of humour. He is as proud of me as I am of him and good in most social situations, except those involving cats.
He is however, currently in the dog house - or should be. The reason: he has breached our tacit agreement. I am happy for him to run wild across farmers' fields for at least an hour a day, to swim through soupy rivers and roll in horse manure. I indulge him in all of the above and reach for the Kiehl's dog shampoo without complaining as I want him to have as much fun as possible living with me.
In return, he is happy to sit patiently under the table in restaurants, cafes and friends' houses. Normally, he can be relied on to do this, without so much as a murmur.
On Saturday evening however, he accompanied me to The Mad Hatter's where he proved unusually high maintenance, foraging (harmlessly I thought) in my bag. Only at the end of the evening did I discover he had eaten my Prada sunglasses - one of the last vestiges of my fashion editor days.
'Vilain!' I admonished him, using a word Luis taught me and trying to be cross. But it was impossible - not least because our neighbours were telling him how cute he is. I really liked my sunglasses but try as I might I just can't ever be angry with Biff, no matter what naughtiness he has been up to. Is this, I wonder, the definition of true love?