It’s sad to see. He lies on the floor, at my feet, big brown eyes looking up at me. His cold, wet nose glistening as the flickers from the fire light up the room.

Getting old now, you see. Gone the sprightly beast of youth, the non-stop energy, the gay abandon with which he took to life. Those powerful hind quarters are not what they once were. He sighs. The top of his enormous head is coated with matted hair. He sighs again, scratches vigorously, grumbles.

“You wanna go for a walk, old fella?”, I ask.

He looks at me. I know he understands but what normally has him up and circling like a lunatic, excited to be going outside like it’s his first ever, leaves him stretched out on the floor. He turns on his side. Once lithe, now the belly is pronounced. He stretches.

“Walk?”, I said, jangling his lead.

Nothing. He grumbles again from that deep, barrelly chest, deep, resonating. I can’t help but think of the good times. Out walking. ‘Get ‘em!’, I’d say and he’d leap forward ready to chase and maul and possibly hump whatever it was I was pointing at. Time waits for no man, nor beast. It catches up with us all. The cat strolls in, sniffs him, recoils as is the cats wont, but they are old friends and the feline sits next to him for a while, as if to say ‘It’ll be ok, I understand’.

I put down my book, blow out the candles and put on my coat. I’m going out and he’s coming with me. His life might be passing from autumn to winter but dammit I’m not going to let him fade away like this.

“Get up. Come on. Get up”, I say. He groans again. Lies panting on the floor. “Come on. We’re going out. You have no choice. Get up”. This time he turns away from me. ‘Leave me be’, he’s saying. ‘I just want to lie here to wither in peace’. It’s heartbreaking. A once proud beast reduced to this.

I won’t let him wither though. I will make sure of it. I walk slowly over to him and look down. It’s pitiful. He won’t make eye contact. I’m not sure I could cope if he did. I pretend to walk away, I can sense him relax as he thinks I’m going without him, but quickly I turn and kick him as hard as I can in the balls.

“Come the fuck on, Dave”, I say. “We’re going to Ron’s for a pint and that’s the end of it”.

He gets up. Eventually.

In my house to get to the bathroom I have go out the bedroom door, into the hall, open the door to the kitchen, go through the kitchen, open the door into the back hall, go down the back hall, and then into the bathroom to enjoy all the delights of my throne.

I can do this in the dark, in the dark whilst as drunk as a lord, in the dark whilst as drunk as a lord and as stoned as a goat, in the dark whilst as drunk as a lord and as stoned as a goat whilst wearing my eye mask, in the dark whilst drunk as a … you get the idea.

It’s a journey well travelled. One which holds no surprises, although sometimes if I let Bastardface sleep in the kitchen he might wake up, give a gruff woof and momentarily startle me.

Last night was one of those nights. I’d stayed up late watching episodes of 30 Rock and practising going out of doors backwards doing the robot. There was wine, some more wine, then some beer, more robot and I got a bit hungry so went to the fridge. I discovered that when you open those vacuum packed steaks that it is necessary to eat them both at the same time. They will not keep. The smell of slighty turning meat put me off real food so I ate a packet of Reese’s Pieces things that I got in Aldi the other day.

The steak I gave to Bastardface. He scoffed it like Mary Harney scoffs her two breakfasts each morning. Anyway, there was more drinking and watching and eventually I got tired and headed for bed. Bastardface was such good company I decided to let him sleep in the kitchen after letting him out the back for his nightly ablutions. All was well.

After so much to drink I woke at around 6am with a pressing need to have a great big slash. I went out the bedroom door, into the hall, opened the door to the kitchen, went through the kitchen, Bastardface gave a little woof, all was normal. That was until I went into the back hall, and as I was kind of going on auto-pilot I did not notice the series of gone-off-meat-powered turds that littered the floor until I stood in one. In my bare feet.

“Bleurrggh!”, I think I exclaimed as I lifted my eye mask and promptly stood in another one with my other foot.

“Bastardface, what have you done?”, I said ridiculously as I knew exactly what he had done. He lifted his head somewhat sheepishly from the mat in the corner of the kitchen and watched me as I tried to make it to the bathroom, walking on my heels, so as not to get more poo on the floor.

I sat in the shower, hosed the brown goo from the soles of my feet and from between my toes, had a piss, then set about cleaning the mess that the dog had made. Fifteen minutes later, with the back door wide open to let some fresh air in, I had finished. Not a particularly pleasant way to start any day.

I wandered back through the kitchen as I made my way back to bed. I looked at the dog. He looked at me. I shook my head. He raised his eyebrows at me. I knew what he was saying. “Hey, sorry for the mess old chap, but if you will give me a gone off steak just before bedtime then you can’t really blame me”.

True that.