When I first came to Moscow, I lived in a flat in the same elevator-less building as an unstable Doberman.

This dog, as they say in California, had many unresolved issues.

Before I went out, I used to listen at the door for its fateful scrabbling on the stairs before I crept out. Coming into the building was even more fraught with danger. There was no telling when I might meet the dog. I'd be hauling my shopping up the stairs when the Doberman would silently leap from the shadows. Swinging several plastic bags, I'd stagger back, as its jaws snapped on empty air.

The dog's owner, a mild-mannered middle-aged woman, would soothingly whisper "not allowed, not allowed," while the beast slavered on the end of its chain. She would smile at me as if inviting me to share in the joys of her amusing pet's little foibles.

Recently, I moved in with a friend who has a dog she took in off the street — William.

William is a big, black thing of dubious breeding. His issues are of a different kind from the Doberman's. While the Doberman hated everybody, William loves everybody. While the Doberman longed to be let out on a killing spree, William is paranoid about being left on his own outside.

William will leap on strangers, not to bite, but to adoringly dribble. When I have him pulling on the end of his lead, people give me a wide berth and, I admit, in the depths of my soul, I sometimes find that satisfying. Now, it's my turn.

But it's not all fun and games with William.

Take, for example, going shopping with William: From the moment I tie his leash to a fence outside the store and walk inside, I can hear a harrowing howling that pierces walls and echoes around the shelves. People look at each other and recall the stories their grandmothers back in the village used to tell about werewolves. Those who see me coming flash accusing glances at me. I feign a deep interest in detergents.

Also, William is in the prime of his life and it pains me to have to pull him back when he strikes up an acquaintance with one of the local (for want of a better word) bitches and starts to get a little forward. Imagine what it would be like: You're at a party, someone catches your eye, you sidle over to him/her and start a conversation. You think this might be your night, you're engaged in the human equivalent of bottom sniffing … when suddenly you feel an insistent tugging and some killjoy says "Time to go home."

It truly is a dog's life.