My neighbor let her dog use my lawn as a toilet every morning for six months and never cleaned up once — I stayed polite until she made one comment I couldn’t forget, and by the next morning I’d taught her a lesson without raising my voice once.

we got along.

Then Winston arrived.

Winston is an English bulldog.

A large one.

He has the kind of face that makes him look mildly disappointed with the entire world, and my children absolutely adore him.

My six-year-old son Oliver has been campaigning for a bulldog of his own practically since Winston moved in.

Tom also loves him.

He often stands at the kitchen window commenting on Winston’s movements as though he is narrating a wildlife documentary.

I have nothing against Winston.

That part matters.

Winston is a dog.