Viola guarded Emerence’s home all through the winter. I put a stop to it only after a certain Saturday night, when he came home drunk. When she brought him home, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The dog was reeling, his belly was like a barrel, he was panting heavily and rolling his eyes. I couldn’t even pick him up because he kept toppling over. I crouched down to examine him. He hiccuped, and I smelt the beer. “Emerence, the dog’s drunk!” I gasped. “We had a little drink,” she replied calmly. “It won’t kill him. He was thirsty. It did him good.”