The dog doesn’t know she was a panic buy. She plays, and nips, and pisses on the rug just like any ordinary puppy. She has the bony chest of every kelpie, with a dash of white in the black and tan fur. Her legs and muzzle, a syrupy brown, make her look like she’s been dipped in honey. The rest of her is blackstrap molasses. Her eyes are the kind of warm yellow I long for at the end of winter.

She’s a working dog bought for company, and I’ve had to massage out the herding instinct and hone instead her loyalty. This hasn’t been hard. The heft of her, when she lies on my chest after a day of chasing, feels like companionship. The warmth of her body, impressed into mine, offers solidarity. She knows nothing about the pandemic. What she knows is the route we walk every day, along the dirt roads, to the grey box with the deep cleft in its trunk like Corbet’s model in ‘L’Origine du monde’.