Two months ago, my lovely dog had to be put to sleep.

No pooch in my life has been more greatly mourned. Having been through this before, I vowed that should I ever think of having another, it would have to be next year.

In the meantime, without much conviction, I tried to be positive about the relative freedom enjoyed by those with no responsibilities for pets.

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Barely a week into relative home confinement I found myself trawling the rescue sites, looking for another four legged companion.

A puppy seemed too demanding a prospect. Likewise something like a collie dug, although I am very friendly with one. They expect owners who think nothing of two-hour walks.

The animal welfare organisations I already support had dogs that were either too wee, or too smooth – I do like a shaggy dog!

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Of course I was only being offered pictures and the briefest of back stories since visiting was no longer an option. Much too dangerous anyway – my car could have had room for three or four furries.

And, as I finally admitted, having had two dogs and a bitch of the same breed, I was kinda hooked on it. A breed with a sense of humour and lots of attitude.

So an application form has gone off to their rescue site and I await news. Hell of a quiet round here without the patter of paws circling the food bowl.

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