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?
