Artie was never meant to spend his life with me. But a chance phone call, some good timing, and a late cancellation saw me headed to his breeder for a visit. It was at that time I realised that humans did not evolve enough hands for visiting a pile of puppies. During our first meeting, a bunch of barking sweet potatoes with wagging tails all play fought and jumped up my legs, as they competed for pats from my insufficiently numbered two hands. All the puppies, but one. One laid on my feet and happily chewed away at my laces. That puppy was Green Boy.

Green boy soon became Artie. Artie seemed to be born with the classic ‘Spready to the Gods’ Irish Setter sleeping pose. He was a food menace. He blew bubbles while drinking, then would wipe his mouth dry on my pant leg. Artie loved to play fetch, but he never knew how to drop the ball. He had a personal vendetta against all plants. One day, I was running late for a road trip. Artie, who normally would have laid in the bathroom whilst I got ready, was not there. I was super proud of his new found independence. Until I walked into my loungeroom. That vendetta saw a proud Artie with a rubber tree pulled by the roots in his mouth from its newly watered pot. Mud shaken on every surface of a room with 3.5m ceilings. Needless to say, I ran late that day.