I can’t see my saviour, my knight in yellow armour, my loyal guardian angel, but I can paint a mental picture of him with my hands. He’s big and built like a staffie, with well-muscled back legs and a broad, fuzzy chest. His muzzle is long and thick, and his tongue is like a strip of wet leather, soft as it runs down my arm whenever he licks me. His tail is silky and his pelt is always groomed. I imagine him to be smiling all of the time, tongue lolling and eyes satisfied.

I couldn’t do much without him. He is my eyes and, in a way, my legs. He relentlessly guides me to the store when I need to go shopping, and is forever willing to take a stroll with me when the need arises. I’ve had him since he was a boisterous puppy, and he has undergone the training for me, to give me a decent shot at life without sight. He will curl up next to me in bed, a bulky and effective water bottle, and wake me up in the morning with his hot breath. If he had thumbs, he would make me breakfast. If he had a voice box, he would reassure me and talk to me endlessly. He is my best friend, a loving carer and a reliable brother all at the same time.

He is my canine saviour.

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