I’m getting used to not having a dog, but it’s possible I haven’t really accepted he has gone. Surely Oscar must be lurking in his bed somewhere? He has been for the past 15 years, so that feels logical. Certain times of day are harder: there is no obvious end to work in the early evening, when I usually took him out, and at bedtime my husband is lost without the ritual cry of “Pipi!” with which he summoned Oscar for a last pee for over a decade.
My worst is morning walk time. I have replaced it with a dogless health-trudge round the streets, but that has meant breaking the news to the other dog walkers. They have been lovely – grown Yorkshiremen have hugged me and expressed emotion – but inevitably the question comes: so, are you getting another?
It’s a good, knotty question. Their experiences seem inconclusive: the neighbour with the hyperactive terrier that needs four walks a day lowered his voice as he confided he sometimes regrets replacing his old dog so soon; the man who dotes on his calm, grizzled greyhound says he waited 30 years before taking the plunge. A woman I follow on Instagram got a new dog just four days after her old one died; she seems delighted.
For me, it’s definitely too soon, but will it ever be time? I know dogs are a planetary disaster: a wet-food diet for a dog smaller than Oscar produces more than six tonnes of CO2 a year, according to one study. I’m also swayed by the argument that the way we make pets fit into our lives isn’t necessarily a recipe for their happiness. Oscar was deeply loved and indulged, but I wonder guiltily sometimes if his life was lacking in fun. I was working, wrangling kids and busy: I didn’t always have the time or inclination for games.
Besides, I’m enjoying the peace. No kids and no dog waking me at 5am; able to go away on a whim. Surely that is the life I want? My browser history – sweet, sad-eyed hounds available for adoption, late at night – tells another story.
• Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
