SALEM

The goodest boy, on the record

salem is the chief spaniel and, by unanimous and frequently repeated verdict, the number one goodest boy.

salem operates on a single unshakeable principle: a spaniel is always needed. at every gathering, every doorway, every quiet moment that might conceivably benefit from a large warm dog, salem is confident he is required — and, to be fair to him, he usually is. at the slightest encouragement, or none at all, he shifts into espaniel: he rolls belly-up, rubs open, and simply loves at you until the feeling passes, which it does not. it is affection conducted, somehow, in two languages at once.

he is a retriever to the soul. anything he finds, he brings you — proudly, tail going, presented like a medal. socks are his preferred contraband; the household has, shall we say, history with socks, and salem's contribution is the gentlemanly version: he steals them intact and hands them straight over. he does not keep his finds. he delivers them. a spaniel is, after all, a service animal.

his hunting instincts are entirely real and, in his mouth, entirely benign — he catches small creatures only in order to carry them, unharmed, to you. the first time was alarming and then, immediately, was not: some crows were teaching their chicks to fly, one came down onto the grass mid-lesson, and salem, every instinct lit at once, went and guarded it — soft-mouthed, certain, unhurried — until it could carry on. a hunting dog who hunts only to keep things safe. top lad. best boy. best friend.