The dog was my fault. I knew perfectly well that a Pekingese would be wrong in a household of ridgebacks and Irish setters. I also knew that one didn’t buy puppies from a pet shop. Our dogs came in as rogues — the runt of someone’s litter, or a stray, or a gun-shy hunter that refused to breed. But at thirteen, severely discontented with the dos and don’ts of life, I wanted to see just how far the determination to do the wrong thing might take me. And so I nagged.

Even after the heart was out of my petition,…