That may sound like a dreary way to look at winter: an old guy rattling around in a house too big for him and spending lonely hours huddled in dark, chilly rooms. But that would hardly describe the reality of this place. There’s another living creature here, as well: a small (eighteen pounds), frowsy, lively, ginger-colored terrier of unknown origins who follows the old guy almost everywhere – but invariably into the kitchen and bathroom – curls up within six feet of him when he’s at his desk, and jumps into his lap when he takes an occasional nap in his recliner.

Before I go any farther with this, I admit that writing about your dog is like shooting fish in a barrel: You can’t miss. I was raised on the stories of heroic canine companions. Albert Payson Terhune (I’ve always mistrusted guys who use all their names), who bred collies at Sunnybank, his estate in New Jersey, kept me company during the lower grades of school with tales of Lad, Wolf, and other preternaturally perceptive canines. Jack London’s career, after several fits, starts, and disasters, took off like a rocket after Macmillan bought his novel Call of the Wild. When my kids were small, I read them Farley Mowat’s The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be. For all his insistence upon “not letting the facts get in the way of the truth,” Mowat absolutely nails the relationship between a growing boy and an extraordinary dog. His final sentence, after he finds Mutt has been run over by a passing truck, remains with me still: “And so the pact of timelessness between us was broken and I went from him into the darkening tunnel of the years.”

Kiki and I have been together in this house for just about four years now. She was rescued and acculturated by a very pleasant animal-loving lady in Texas before I got her. People often ask her breed. The nearest I can come to it is purebred Godnose Terrier. I think she looks a lot like a Border Terrier, the little diggers that hunters in the English borderlands use to flush out small game for the hounds to chase. But when I showed her photo to a pair of rather hoity-toity Border Terrier breeders in Scotland, they looked down their noses, chuckled, and bade me a lofty good day. So Godnose she is, and she barks and digs and hunts as well as any dog, in spite of my objections.

I read last week that hominids and canines are the only two species that can look into each other’s eyes and read expressions, which would explain their easy communication and natural affinity for each other. This, however, being the age of mis- and disinformation, and since I lack personal experience with baboons, giraffes, and rhinoceroses, I’m not sure I believe that. But there’s no doubt in my mind that Kiki and I, at least, can read each other like a book. She seems to understand that she’s free to roam leashless and pursue her interests within certain limits (Just in case, she has three identifying tags and a chip). For my part, I appreciate that she’d rather be with me than not, and that if I’m leaving her alone behind me, I’d better have a good reason for doing it. Our last dog, besides being a genius, was a herder, more than content to lie on the floor of any room we were in, ready to jump up and go with us to make sure we were all right. In the woods, she trotted ahead and looked over her shoulder on average every fourteen of my steps to make sure I was still on track. Downtown, she walked with me through the heaviest traffic with her nose against my knee. Kiki is as different as it’s possible to be. If there are people around (a common feature of downtowns), she has to greet every one. In the woods, she mostly trusts me not to fall down (when I do, she’s right there, interfering with my trying to get back up), and fires off left and right to clear the space around us of vicious predators. It must work; we’ve been attacked by no pumas, wolverines, or snowshoe rabbits to this date. Our bond is ritualized as any High Mass, from dining to walking to going to the bank. But the times I cherish the most are when I kick back in my chair to read and nap. Instantly I get an eighteen-pound pelvic heater, expressing complete faith that everything is – and will be – just fine.