The dog that loved French cooking

Henderson was always a curious boy, genetically wired to hunt rats but much more likely to put his talents to other uses.

He would often spend his time at the park ignoring the rambunctious, energetic dogs who were eager to play, instead turning his attention to the nooks and crannies that held garbage and scraps in all forms of decay. Once, he hit the jackpot and found a large piece of pizza. He refused to continue his walk and dragged me all the way home, dribbling along the pavement because to swallow would be to drop the pizza, and he wasn't taking any chances.

At home, he took it to his favourite spot and slowly enjoyed every last bit. I didn't dare try to stop him. I need my fingers, after all.

Scavenger, garbage guts and local compost dog may be ways to describe young Henderson, but he's also playful, sweet and an excellent companion.

One day, I took him to visit my grandma, who was still living in her home but I know these were the final months before she had to relocate to a nursing home. She often spoke of Cuddles, her West Highland Terrier from decades prior, who used to share her blankets and offer her that which his name demanded. He wasn't even 10 when tragedy struck, and a neighbouring dog dragged Cuddles under the fence and killed him painfully. Henderson was a reminder of the warmth and kindness Cuddles provided, and she loved him for it.

On that day, Henderson was in fine form sniffing about, begging Grandma Mavis for food as he often did. I love to bake and spend much of my time developing 'veganised' recipes, versions of my favourite non-vegan dishes without any animal products. Though Grandma Mavis was certainly not a vegan, she was open-minded and had a sweet tooth that led her to try anything.

I presented her with my Pain au Chocolat, and after a few attempts at pronouncing it I simply told her they were my Chocolate Pastries, made with love and clean hands. We sat down to eat, and Henderson played it cool.

'What a good boy he is! Not bothering us at all.'

Grandma Mavis was fooled but I wasn't. Henderson often played the long game, spending what felt like hours starting at me, with a look in his eyes that practically accused me of maltreatment, of abuse, of failing to feed him, of forgetting to love him. It was a clever strategy and often worked, but not today. Pastries, vegan or not, are hardly canine appropriate.

I went to use the bathroom and when I came back, I could see Henderson happily munching. I asked Grandma Mavis what he was eating, and she swore she didn't know. Meanwhile, I could see an explosion of tiny, flaky pastry remnants falling all over the ground.

15 minutes later, Henderson vomited all over her carpet.

We left that day in good spirits, after a wonderful visit that was one of the last with Grandma Mavis with all her faculties, and I think fondly of that time often. Henderson was contended that night, perhaps more than I've ever seen him, I think because he'd set out to achieve a goal, and he did so. The vomiting was neither here nor there.

Grandma Mavis loved these pastries, and agreed you couldn't tell they were vegan. 'After all,' she said, 'It's not like you can taste the eggs in cake anyway!'

That's the best part about vegan desserts: when done well, you'd never know the difference. Even Henderson agrees.