At the age of 11, I went to the ancestral village to visit my grandfather for the first time. Grandad, who lived on his own, was accompanied by a Chinese farm dog called Barry. Barry was not a handsome boy, to be honest, but he was faithful.

Bitten by a canine at 7, I was on my guard against Grandpa’s animal in the beginning. Unexpectedly, Barry did not bark fiercely at me the way other dogs did. Instead, he greeted me by wagging his tail merrily. I stroked his head. His ears were pinned back, his eyes narrowed, and his muzzle nudged me. We clicked right away and thus our friendship was born.

There were a lot of vicious dogs about the farm in those days, so I feared to go and play out. “You are as timid as a mouse,” Grandad said. “Let Barry go out with you.”

After that Barry shadowed me. Wherever I went, he was by my side. If other village dogs growled at me, Barry would growl back. There were many occasions when the loyal friend chased some potential attackers away.

I do not know the reason, but as a child I was very much a loner. I did not have any human playmate. Grandad’s dog came in and filled the role. Barry frolicked with me, dined with me, and even slept with me. The strong bond Barry formed with me helped me to understand what it meant to be a friend.

The morning I was to leave the countryside, Barry was still at my heels. I said, “You go back, Barry.” He went back. As I mounted the bike and was pedalling off, he came out and ran after me. Barry’s attachment to me was such that it was impossible for us two to part company.