I was 8 or so when I declared war on the world. I refused to go to school, and spent my days under the covers reading Billy Bunter books.

My parents didn’t know what was going on with me. I would burst into tears for no reason at all and explode into rage without provocation. I battled to fall asleep and when I did I was haunted by harrowing nightmares.

When I think back to that time, I realise that my sadness and hopelessness were because I was feeling vulnerable.

One morning, I woke up and discovered that we had been robbed. I struggled with the violation. I was scared, confused, and insecure.

My home, which had been a safe place, had become a place of fear and anxiety.

Someone suggested to my parents that a dog might help me escape my misery.

My father’s friend had a Rottweiler called Xamba, who had just sired a litter of pups.

So it came to be that I was handed a bundle of black fur with tan markings.

Zardoz, son of Xamba, came from royal stock and had a pedigree that Prince William would be proud of.

His little tail stuck out like a thumb. When he wagged it, it looked like he was hitchhiking.

Zardoz became mine, and I became his. I told him all my problems. He was a good listener. He never laughed at me, judged me, or held grudges.

He was always there, wagging his docked tail, when I came home from school.

He became my shadow.

At night, he slept in a curled-up ball on my bed. He was a shield against the bad guys.

Zardoz, though, was more than just a playmate, bed warmer and, quite literally, my security blanket. He brought uncomplicated and unconditional love to my life.

He was there as I navigated my turbulent growing-up years. He made me feel at peace even when — perhaps especially when — the world made no sense.

When he was about a year old, my father and I took him and our other dog, Delta Queen, for dog training every Sunday morning.

Zardoz was too strong for me to handle, so my father trained him while I trained Delta, a sweet girl who just wanted to be loved.

Zardoz and my father graduated to the advanced class, but Delta and I never made it out of the beginners.

Part of the training was teaching guard dog skills. The trainer, Eddie, acted as an assailant, and your dog was meant to spring into action and chase him away.

When it was our turn, Eddie pretended to assault me. I fell to the ground and called Delta to come to my rescue. Instead, she turned tail and fled to the car.

“That’s the smartest dog in the class,” Eddie told the other dog handlers. “She’s gone to fetch the police.”

Humiliated, I pleaded for Delta to come back, but she wouldn’t budge.

I was getting back on my feet when I saw Zardoz, who had broken free from my father, come bounding across the dusty patch to my rescue.

After every class, Eddie gave the dogs water. Then he opened his car boot and dished out cream soda in plastic cups to the humans.

With a slobbering Zardoz, who would stick his head out the car window, and Delta snoring gently in the back, we drove to Emmarentia Dam, where the dogs would swim.

On our way home, we stopped to rent a video and buy a packet of greasy slap chips wrapped in newspaper for our lunch.

The outing became a Sunday ritual that we observed for years, and the times spent with my dogs and my father are some of my happiest memories.

Zardoz was the best good boy a boy could have.

I’ve always been surrounded by dogs. Gypsy, Delta, Tzamatata, Zalia, Zak, Zulig, Patch, Penny, Zara, Frankie, Zeno, Princess, Daisy, and my two current hounds, Zoom and Pickles.

These good boys asked for so little but gave so much.

A framed photograph of Zardoz, taken 45 years ago, is on my desk. I look at it every day, at the dog who rescued me.