Nine years ago, when I first took Harry to the vet, they asked me, 'Of all the breeds, why this one?' I looked over at Harry, who was licking the wall, and said, 'I googled "dogs that don't bark and don't like to walk" and English bulldogs were top of the list.'
I decided to get a dog when I was 53 years old, months before my 18-year-old twin daughters went to university.
As a student I had a cat, and a border collie when I was two, but he ran away after a year. And, in the beginning, I had no idea what I was doing with Harry.
So I went all out: he had scheduled naps with a white-noise machine, a pink pushchair for when he refused to walk, an air conditioner and a babysitter.
At the time, I was an anthropology professor at a university in Rhode Island and, when I wasn't teaching, I was at home marking or preparing lectures. Eventually I enrolled Harry in daycare, Mondays to Fridays, for £375 a month, so he never had to be alone.
In the first few weeks, Harry's puppy antics - jumping, biting and stealing my underwear - were so unrelenting, we were convinced there was something wrong with him.
I remember standing at the sink, washing dishes, and thinking, 'I've made the biggest mistake of my life.' Around this time, my loving husband of 30 years confessed, 'Since we got Harry, I don't look forward to coming home.'
Debra adored so much about Harry: 'How he would rest his paw on my wrist and hold my gaze, or how his bottom would wiggle, like a salmon swimming upstream, when he ran to the front door'
So, that day when I first took Harry to the vet, I told them my husband, a medical doctor, thought that Harry had rabies. I just thought he was mentally ill. The vet assured me he was simply a normal puppy.
Still, when I saw how much joy Harry brought my daughters, I fell in love. I adored so much about him: how he would rest his paw on my wrist and hold my gaze; or how his bottom would wiggle, like a salmon swimming upstream, when he ran to the front door. His signature move for greeting people - whether he knew them or not - was to sit on their feet.
After my daughters moved out, Harry began sleeping with me. This had its complications. I come from a long line of women who didn't share a bed with their husbands and, consequently, my husband and I would arrange 'dates' for sex.
But if we tried to have a date when Harry was home, he would sit at the threshold of the bedroom, whimpering. It was hard to get into the mood while Harry watched us, with his sweet droopy eyes.
And we could never bring ourselves to close the door. So, from then on, we could only have sex during the day on Wednesdays - my husband's day off and when Harry was at daycare.
My devotion to our dog didn't end there. One night, when Harry was two, I smelled smoke in the house.
At the time, Stella, a Tibetan refugee, was living with us. Straight away, I strapped Harry into his harness and grabbed my laptop. Handing the leash and computer to Stella, I said, 'Guard him with your life.'
I then instructed her to go out the back door to get as far away from the house as possible while I waited at the front door for the fire engine. The first thing one of the firemen said when he came into the house and saw Stella standing at the back door with Harry was, 'Is there anyone else in the house?' And then it dawned on me - my husband! My poor husband who had been struck down by Covid was fast asleep in his bed.
I was so focused on saving Harry - and my unpublished manuscript - I had forgotten about him. (Although saving the manuscript paid off. Now it's my debut novel, which will be published this week in five different countries.)
If you're worrying how my husband felt about all of this, don't. After those first weeks, he developed a deep affection for Harry.
He'd come home from work and tell him, 'I've thought about you all day.' And during the summer, Harry rode in the front seat of the car to enjoy the air conditioning while my 67-year-old husband happily squeezed into the back.
Did our dog improve our marriage? Absolutely. Perhaps it's because when Harry became the new 'man' of the house, it took some heat off my husband.
Or because watching my husband show tenderness to Harry every day, no matter how tired he was from seeing patients, only affirmed my love for both of them.
Ultimately, how we treated Harry - with an endless amount of attention - shaped his expectations. There were days when he made it clear that he wanted the living room sofa to himself, while the rest of us sat on side chairs or the floor.
There were months at a time when I hand-fed him breakfast on the same white sofa that my daughters, when they were young, were not allowed to put their feet on. (Food-wise, Harry had allergies so was on a special diet of 'hydrolysed protein' most of his life. His healthcare team was extensive too: a regular vet; a dermatologist for allergies; an oral surgeon; an ophthalmologist for low tear production. At one point my husband thought he needed to have an acupuncturist.)
I wonder if I've joined the ranks of humans who prefer canine company over people. Why are dogs easier to love? A dog's love is unmatched. It's a kind of love that is so expansive it is limitless. Never-ending - as long as they're alive.
Two months ago, a few days before Christmas, I woke up sometime past midnight and Harry was not in bed. When I turned on the light, I saw him struggling to stand in the corner of my room.
I got on my hands and knees, trying to reassure him. My husband and I carried him downstairs wrapped in a blue fleece blanket and drove him to a 24-hour emergency vet.
An ultrasound revealed a tumour on his spleen. There were no signs or symptoms; it all happened suddenly. We were instructed to go home and sleep. Before I left, I gently pressed my face to his and said, 'I love you, and I'll be back.'
The next day he was operated on. When I was told he had died, I wailed. I felt as though I had abandoned him. At the vet's, they rolled his body out on a gurney, covered with blankets and an orange carnation near his head.
I thanked him for everything. He was cremated and his remains were placed in a cedar box, which sits on the fireplace mantel. Afterwards, sadness consumed me. My doctor prescribed minor tranquillisers to help me cope.
Lately, my husband and I spend our evenings downstairs sitting on the sofa holding hands watching movies - an activity we haven't done in years. Of course, I would trade it in a heartbeat for Harry to be here hogging the sofa for himself.
Years from now, I will recall winter nights with the two of us in bed and the window open listening to owls. If we were cuddling or sharing a snack, I would say ‘Shhh…listen, can you hear the owls?’ He would stop panting look at me intensely and then look toward the window.
Harry's daycare teacher helped me give away his toys bowls steps and raincoat to a dog in need. Well-meaning friends and acquaintances have suggested I get a new dog. Honestly, I don't see that happening any time soon. Harry may well have been my one and only truest companion.