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A month ago, our wonderful terrier, Lupin, aka The Colonel – for many years the star of this column – went to dog heaven.

Abandoned on the streets of Tipperary as a puppy, he suffered the indignities of homelessness, near-starvation and having his tail docked before being rescued. We were lucky to have him for the next 11 years.

The unexpectedness of his death – though dreadful for us – was in a strange way apt. Everything always had to be his idea. So I can’t imagine he would have enjoyed the long, slow decline into canine decrepitude, where he could no longer carry giant sticks the width of a Spitfire’s wing, howl in rapture along to Betty’s accordion, and play with dogs half his age.

It was cancer of the spleen, with the symptoms only becoming apparent on the eve of his death. The vet was going to put him to sleep at the surgery. But I insisted they come to the house, not caring about the cost. So I drove him home, where he spent his last afternoon curled up on the sofa with us. A dog of great emotional intelligence, he was aware of the melancholy atmosphere, though quite oblivious to his fate. We all had the luxury of saying goodbye on our own terms (Mr H F planting a most affecting kiss on his topknot). The children and I told him how much he was loved. The Colonel, contented, if slightly abashed to find himself the centre of such an adoring tableau, reciprocated with tender licks. A few hours later, the vets arrived. He died in my arms.

When I related the sad news to the Aged P, she started keening down the phone. Soon we had all joined in at our end, like a Greek chorus in full throat. In