I'm looking after a friend's boxer dog for the weekend and since I'm not 100% confident that I can leave him alone in the flat for any length of time, it's basically me and him and The Wire for the next 48 hours, with occasional breaks for walks and meals.

He's a very good-natured dog but he's feeling a bit sorry for himself because he's got a sore foot and stitches on his chest from a minor operation he had on Wednesday. So I'm trying to follow the instructions left by his owner to the letter to make sure he's as happy and comfortable as possible.

This includes letting him sleep in, or at least on, my bed, which is what he's used to at home. I grew up with dogs (I mean my family had dogs, I wasn't raised by dogs) and they were never allowed upstairs, let alone on the bed, so this canine co-habitation all seems a little bit Californian to me.

Anyway, he wasn't too bad a sleeping partner last night but he does like to spoon, and I get hot easily, so I woke up a couple of times in the night to find that I'd been squeezed out of the side of the duvet, like the last Polo in the packet.

We'd gone to bed about 1am, after finishing the first couple of DVDs from The Wire box set, and he woke me up about 7.30am, all excited like a kid on Christmas morning. We had a bit of a chat and he agreed to a 20-minute snooze and then I took him out on Wandsworth Common for his walk.

Back the the flat for breakfast then more of The Wire.

I've come to The Wire pretty late in the game, slightly daunted by its reputation as the must-see series of the last few years. I'm about halfway through the first season and so far it's quite slow-burn but I'm sure I'll be addicted by the end of the box set.

My canine friend does not seem particularly impressed — he's slept through most of it so far. Perhaps he's finding the Baltimore accents a little impenetrable.