The experts keep telling me I’ve got to put her to bed and leave her, but I can’t do it. I know I’m making a rod for my own back but when she starts crying in the night I get up and bring her into my bed. I try to sleep when she sleeps, but I’m so besotted with her that I tend to just stay awake staring at her as she’s lying in my arms. I don’t want to miss the slightest thing: a furrowing of her brow, a twitch of her tiny nose. As I type this, she’s lying in my lap looking adoringly up at me. I’m hoping I can put her down for a nap soon because I feel as though I will pass out if I don’t get some rest.
I’ve barely eaten. My brain has gone to mush. If I try to concentrate on something other than her, my mind feels like it’s been wiped blank. I can’t even think of a name. Nothing is pretty enough. Her kennel name is Byrecoc Cinemon Jonquil. Oh, I’m sorry, I should have said, she’s a puppy. Well, you didn’t think I had done the conventional thing for a woman of my age and had a baby, did you? Lord, no. I’ve got myself a tip-top cocker spaniel.
Not on impulse, I assure you. I’ve been planning this for a while. I’ve been searching exhaustively for a dog that ticks a very complex set of boxes, including ‘won’t eat the house rabbits’, ‘can be trained to run alongside a horse’ and ‘doesn’t yap’.
A week ago, the gamekeeper at the farm where I keep my horses wound down the window of his Defender and said, ‘Are you still interested in those cockers, because Long John says there’s only one left.’
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