Me and my brother used to play a game called Who Loves Me Most with our dog. Him dying ruined all that, but we held (and hold) no grudges, because little Freddy was a fine hound.

The game was extremely cruel, easily as cruel as cyst removal is to someone with a great many cysts, and probably caused untold—mainly because Freddy couldn’t tell us—suffering to our poor little dog. And it went like this.

My younger brother would take his side of the arena (the living room) and I would take my end. Then a third-party (anyone who would help, but usually our sister) would drop Freddy in to the arena to do battle. His mission? Simple: to decide who he loved the most. The rules were simple: there were no rules. We could do whatever we wanted to do to convince Freddy that we loved him the most, but ultimately it was up to Freddy to decide where his loyalty laid.

The game caused massive disputes, of course (some of which remain to be settled to this day, such as the outcome of one game in March 1994), such as the time when I was said to have employed devious tactics to get Freddy’s attention (his favourite dog treats) and the time my brother lunged at Freddy in a bid to ensnare him.

I miss those days playing Who loved me most. I’m sure that Freddy died happily, though. Wouldn’t anyone die happily if they knew that they were wanted so much a game was invented especially for them?