Everytime I think I am getting better, I'm not. Home was the worst place to come to. I keep looking over my shoulder expecting the old routines. Sit for tea, my dog's not there begging for biscuits, go to sleep, no snuffling noises at night. No walks, no pawing for food at meals. No shuffling around the house quietly to be near us.

The house is full of memories and ghosts. My dad speaks of moving. I understand. I would like to shut up the apartment as a mausoleum to our grief. If I were rich and famous, it would be a touching tribute if I built a monument to Brutus. Being ordinary, it is 'just' my dog who has died. Everyone understands, but only a few really do. I am bereaved. If it was a brother I'd be given time off, given space to heal. People would expect me to be shattered. I am shattered on the inside and this grief is globulous and growing inside me, not a romantic metaphor but true.

Brutus, my Brutus, my dearest dearest Brutus