Dogs interested me as little as handball results or novels by Uwe Johnson. I wasn't even bothered by dog poo in the grass strip. It was almost as if I had a kind of dog blindness. Where other people have a dog, I had a blank space. Then came the dog Winston, whom bad people abandoned in a cemetery, cucumber-nosed, strangely bow-legged, with bat ears. Of course, Winston is not a wish dog. He pees on the parquet floor, he bites glasses, pillows and telephone cables, destroys the interior decoration and disturbs the night's rest. And he opens up worlds to his new owner of which the latter had no idea before: the complex system of dog meadow, the various master breeds, the dog expert system. Of course, the education of a dog causes the greatest problems for a man who is fundamentally suspicious of the principle of obedience. That all.