FIDELMA COOK

WE SIT, companionably side by side, eyes glued to the TV. In many ways we’re like Leon and June on Channel 4’s Gogglebox except we share a sofa, not two chairs. Like Leon, he gives me a sly, sideways look and asks for a biscuit as he pats my leg.

I, like June, regard him with bemused affection, ready to shy at any lunge, but still get up to get him one.

He loves Strictly Come Dancing. I can take it or leave it but if it keeps him entranced … Hey, isn’t that what it’s all about? Give and take, compromise – the secret of all good relationships.

I love my soaps, as does he, but if the characters aren’t beating hell out of each other or shouting, he drops off.

Thrillers and dramas are a bit of a problem, though, particularly if they involve sirens or whistles.

You see, my Leon is not very bright, and so races to the door in yelling fury. He eyes me blankly when I point to the set and shout: “You stupid boy, it’s the TV.”

It’s the same with the news or current affairs programmes. He really doesn’t do talking heads, but if the voices achieve a certain pitch, he’s off around the shuttered windows and doors.

Portia, bless her, an intellectual in her way, had very little interest in television and would no more have nibbled me for attention than, well, given Cesar house room.

(For those new to the column, I’m talking about my dog. You thought it was my husband? Easy mistake to make – male hounds and men have similar characteristics I’ve found, including al-fresco peeing.)

So, anyway, this is what it’s come to. Me and an Afghan hound, side by side on a sofa in France watching UK television. Ah, the glamour of it all. Worse, discussing it. If he’s in the other room when Strictly is about to come on, I shout: “It’s Strictly sweetheart – your favourite.” And I swear as the de-dede-de-de-da-da-da starts, he gallops in.

I’ve lost the plot here, haven’t I? Rhetorical.

Make no mistake, as I’ve said before I do not anthropomorphise my animals. He’s a dog. Just a dog, not, ugh, a "fur baby" or "Mummy’s boy" – a dog.

Well, sometimes, if he’s really good, he’s Mama’s boy … what, what?

I forgot. He also enjoys The X Factor but doesn’t like it when I sing along. He prefers the boy groups.

I tell him – mainly because it’s now three days since I’ve used my voice out loud – that living alone with a pet has become the social norm in the civilised countries. In the main, of course, by people of a certain age.

Even here, sadly, in the southern European lands where all were once subsumed into the family whole. Bit by bit such simple cohesion is slipping away.

“Home life,” I say, philosophically, while sipping on the vin rouge which is also a major part of our new solo support system, “for many – has been reduced to this.

“A woman and her dog … or cat … Well, possibly budgie. Even a goldfish, I suppose.

“You, dear heart, are my partner. I hate that word, don’t you? Well then, my companion as my vet, the pompiers and my neighbours call you.”

I pat his head. He turns it from me, groans and shuffles himself along the sofa.

“Suit yourself,” I say, used to such rebuffs. “But without me, honeybunny, you’re so over.

“Who, just who, would take on an expensive, perfectly groomed monster? Nobody. That’s who.” And there’s the crux of the matter. He’s two now and could live for another 12 years. Portia was the oldest Afghan I had, dying at 12, Tiggy, the youngest, passed away at just seven.

If, God forbid, as often seems likely, something happens to me before him, who the hell will take him on?

Nobody I can think of at all. I have made my son promise he will find him a good home through the UK Afghan Rescue society.

He says of course, of course, but I’m not sure how high that would really come in his priorities as he unravels the mess of my life stuffed in drawers and empty envelopes.

It was actually not fair of me to get Cesar when I did. I know that, you know that … but I did. He damaged me in Year One and in Year Two I’m damaging him by failing to run alongside his youth.

But such is life. Would a little handbag dog have been better? Undoubtedly, in terms of ease … but they can live long too. Should we forever live our lives in terms of our deaths or the deaths of those we care for?

Undoubtedly on one level but not on the other of just, well, living. One can assume too much in life; plan too much; worry too much.

I want to discuss this with Cesar. But he is too busy chewing a fine antique rug. I’ll have to berate him for that.

Perhaps later, after double Corrie and Eastenders. Or Gogglebox.