The actor Sam Neill has died at the age of 78. Here is a column he wrote for The Spectator in 2014.
Last week, my dog left me. Walked out. Gone and left me for another man. I knew what had happened when I returned to the vineyard after a week or two abroad. As soon as I got out of my truck, there he was, running right past me without so much as a how d’you do. I couldn’t help it – I’m afraid I yelled after him, “Listen, you little shit, I saved your life! One day from death row you were, and this is what I get?”
A house without a dog is oddly empty. I grew up with dogs
I suppose you think I should be heartbroken. I’m not really. Truth is, I liked him well enough, but I never really loved him. That’s hard to admit; you are meant to love your pets unreservedly. My last dog, a brindle Staffordshire bull terrier, I loved more than I can say. She was a very young dog when she came to stay for a few weeks while a friend of ours was recovering from an illness. She never left – our friend luckily recognized she was happier with us. She was called Fire, who knows why. It was awkward because if you had to find her in a park, for instance, mothers of small children would become alarmed at the sight of a scruffy man running about yelling “Fire!”
