My life has gone to the dogs

There's something about rising from bed and stepping into a steaming puddle of warm urine that almost guarantees the rest of your day is not going to be good. The same might also be said for having your morning newspaper torn into thousands of fragments, discovering a pool of vomit on your dressing gown, and having to interrupt breakfast to explain to your small son that his favourite, teddy-shaped flannel has been eviscerated, covered in a thick film of saliva and buried in a shallow grave under the swing set.

Indeed, since I bought a dog, my house has turned into a never-ending Fear Factor of ghastly and unusual sensory horrors.