The pet I’ll never forget: Jerry, the king of dogs, who taught me how to live | Life and style

Jerry came into our lives because a burglar had broken in. My mum had woken in the middle of the night to find an intruder in our kitchen. He scarpered, but the psychological damage was done. Two days later, my dad came home with the cutest little rescue puppy, with traces of beagle and labrador in him. He was two months old, had a black, brown and white coat, and big, bashful eyes. We called him Jerry because we had a cat called Tom. “I’m not sure how he’ll protect us,” I said. “He will,” my dad replied.

Jerry was very laid-back and Zen. He became part of the family straight away. He also became the therapy dog we hadn’t realised we needed. With two teenagers in the house (me and my older brother) and a hyperactive younger brother, someone was always in a strop and needing to let off steam by taking him out for a walk. Each time, Jerry obliged. I’d bore him with my latest teen-romance trauma; he was a very good listener. Sometimes, he’d have five walks a day, with both of my parents taking their turn. He certainly got his steps in.

He also dined in style. Most dogs loiter under the table during meal times. Jerry would climb on top of it and make himself comfortable until dinner was served. Often, I would come home from school and catch him lying there regally, waiting for his next banquet. It wasn’t scraps that interested him; he wanted the full three courses. He particularly liked deli food – salt beef, potato salad, pastrami, coleslaw, even apple strudel. One day, a big bowl of chopped liver disappeared. My mum blamed me, my brothers, then my dad, before realising who the culprit was.

His appetite extended into other areas. Jerry was a Lothario with enduring sex appeal. Despite being neutered, he was still emitting something irresistible. He was the local park pin-up – dogs of all shapes and sizes would hurtle towards him, even follow him home. Jerry would flaunt his je ne sais quoi shamelessly while my mum was left trying to fight off his admirers.

We never did have another burglar while Jerry was around, though that may have been more to do with luck than anything else. He liked strangers, and would make a fuss of anyone who came to the door.

We had Jerry for 14 years. He began spending more time lying quietly in the garden than on top of the dining table, and couldn’t manage more than one walk a day. When I arrived home one evening, my dad broke the news that he was gone.

Twenty-five years later, there’s still a huge, Jerry-shaped hole in my life. But now I think of him as our “eat, play, love” dog. He lived life to the full, and whenever I get stuck in a rut I try to take a leaf out of his playbook.