I always brought and which she expected, I didn’t think I was an awful person. I stopped worrying that somewhere there was probably a better companion than I was. We were the companion each of us had found, and I began to see that, in fact, we had a relationship.

Today Frida recognises the sound of my car, a sluggish black Saab convertible that chugs up the hill to our house, and on whose warm cloth top she likes to sleep. When I approach our gate, after the long drive from the city. I see her huge yellow eyes staring out beneath it. By the time I am out of the car she is at my side, chatting away. She accompanies me into the house, asking for milk, and as soon as I’ve put my things away, she stretches out on the rug in anticipation of a cuddle and a brush. If I’m not into her yet, she understands, and goes back to her milk or, with a querulous complaint, ‘Where were you, anyhow? What took you so long?’ she claims her favourite spot on the couch – which is everybody else’s favourite too. When she sees me putting on boots and grabbing my walking stick, she leaps up, tail like a bushy flag, and beats me to the door. At first she talks as we walk, but then she falls silent, running alongside me exactly as a dog would. Sometimes she’s distracted by field mice, but usually she does her hunting and gathering while I’m in the house; she likes to bring fresh mouse and leave it by the door. The little corpse, its neck chewed through,

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