Feeding & Nutrition

I was chopping anchovies for a puttanesca one Tuesday when the dog appeared, as dogs do, from nowhere, with the full-body stillness of a creature who knows he is about to be fed something forbidden.

Pip, my golden, has opinions about fish. He can hear a tuna tin open from the far end of the garden. So when the oily little fillets hit the board, he was suddenly, suspiciously, at my ankle.

I gave him one. Just one, rinsed of the salt, torn small. He took it like it was the single greatest thing to ever pass his lips, which is saying something for a dog who eats socks.

The next week I started chopping a couple into his evening kibble, partly to use up the open tin, partly because his coat had gone a bit flat after a long wet winter. The vet had mentioned omega-3 without naming a brand, and anchovies are about as pure a source as you'll find in a supermarket aisle.

The breath was immediate and unforgettable. My partner refused to let him near the sofa for two days. We called him the little anchovy and meant it unkindly. But his coat, within a fortnight, had that deep-gold shine again, the kind strangers comment on at the park.

I rinse them now, always. Straight from the tin they're far too salty for a dog, and Pip's heart doesn't need the sodium. A quick swish under the tap, a rough chop, folded through warm food so the oil releases. He polishes the bowl in a way he never does for plain kibble.

There's a knack to the amount. Three small fillets is his limit before the breath becomes a weapon and the stool loosens. Two is the sweet spot. I learned this the hard way during a particularly enthusiastic Thursday.

He now sits by the cupboard where I keep the tin, every evening, with a look of such hope that it's almost blackmail. I've started buying the bigger jar, the one meant for cooking, because the little tins vanish too fast once a dog knows they exist.

The breath fades by morning, after a bowl of plain water and a night of normal dog sleep. The shine stays. For a dog who'd eat literal rubbish given half a chance, an anchovy or two feels like the one fancy thing I can sneak past him without a fuss.

I won't pretend it's a health revolution. But the coat is real, the enthusiasm is real, and the breath is a small price for a dog who finally eats his dinner like he means it.

My partner, who has a nose like a bloodhound, instituted a rule after the first week: anchovy nights mean Pip sleeps at the foot of the bed, not beside the pillow. He accepted this arrangement with the dignity of a dog who knows he's won the bigger prize, which is the oily little fish in his bowl.

I'd tried fish-oil capsules before, the ones you puncture onto food, and they'd always left a greasy film and a half-hearted enthusiasm. The anchovy, chopped fresh, got eaten with a focus the capsules never managed. Same nutrient, far more appeal, and cheaper by the jar than a bottle of capsules that Pip clearly suspected.

On a camping trip I packed a small jar and fed him a fillet straight from the packet after a long walk, and the other campers' dogs watched him like he'd been given treasure. He absolutely knew it. Pip walks differently after an anchovy, with the smugness of a dog who's eaten something his humans also secretly want.

The only real caution is the salt, and I mean it. Straight from the tin they're a sodium bomb no dog needs, and I'd never hand him one unrinsed. A quick swish, a rough chop, folded through warm food so the oil releases, and the breath is a small price for a coat that finally shines the way it did when he was young.

I've come to think of the anchovy as the one indulgence Pip actually earns, the tiny fish that turns a dull bowl of kibble into something he attacks with joy. The breath is the tax, paid nightly, accepted with a held nose and a laugh, because a dog who eats with that much enthusiasm at his age is worth a little olfactory suffering on my part, and the shine in his coat says the trade was his idea all along.

Strangers at the park have started asking what I feed him, because the shine is that obvious, and I tell them, a little embarrassed, about the anchovy jar in my cupboard that was meant for pasta. They laugh, then write it down. Pip, unaware he's become a walking advert for a ninety-pence fish, trots on ahead, smug and gleaming, the very picture of a dog who knows exactly what he's worth at dinnertime.