simply don't know what to do with him," Mrs Morrison said to her friend Vera. They were sitting facing each other in their usual booth in Lyons for the Wednesday tea appointment. " I don't like dogs." She set her teacup back heavily into its saucer, which wobbled.

"He seems rather sweet," said Vera. "Couldn't you grow to like him?"

"She loved him like a child," said Mrs Morisson. "I could never understand her. Sophie doted, if I have ever seen anyone dote."

"The walking is a good thing."

"I will have to buy new shoes." Mrs Morrison looked down at her beige patent-leathers, whose heels she would satisfyingly click together while she was contemplating or filling in crossword clues. They would not do at all. No, not at all. Something more active was called for. She thought of grass, of mud, of all the delights that would adorn the new purchases and would need to be scraped off. She tutted to herself. Vera smiled.

"He'll be good for you. You've lived alone for so long. I wouldn't mind having company. Now that Stan is gone."

Mrs Morisson, so wrapped up as she was in her dog-walking nightmare scenes, only peripherally noticed Vera's face sag at the mention of her husband. She had heard Vera speak just once of the months of his illness, the nights of sleeplessness not because Stan had to be given medication but from Vera's fear of life without him. Vera had planned to be with Stan until they were what she called "wrinklies". Then, when they were only in their late fifties, he slipped away. She had told her friend how she would watch him while he slept, feeling him leaving her. Mrs Morisson had not quite understood. Stan had been, after all, rather demanding and fairly surly. Vera had not said anything again.

"I miss him," Vera said quietly.

"What if I lose him?" Mrs Morrison was far away, in a park somewhere, a dogless leash in one hand, peering into bushes. Although, to think of it, Edward seemed a rather dependent kind of beast, not one who would relish the opportunity to disappear without trace to start a new life.

"Vera," she continued, " I wish there was something I could do with him. I just really don't want him around." Vera mumbled a reply.

"What? What did you say?"

"Nothing. Tell me more about Edward. What does he eat?"

The lawyer, a tall blonde with no hips to speak of, had not given Mrs Morrison any instructions on how to care for her new charge. She had simply read Sophie's last will and testament in a flat tone, only the parts relevant to this particular beneficiary (afterwards Mrs Morisson doubted whether the association with 'benefit' was appropriate): "And to my dearest human friend Mrs Morisson I leave my most beloved non-human friend, Edward G Mansfield, should he outlive me. He brought me so much joy during the years in which we were together and I feel sure he will continue to spread his warmth and love even after I am gone. Take good care of her, Edward."

Mrs Morisson was at first not entirely sure what she had received. It took a full sixty seconds before it sank in. Then she examined the dog, who had been asleep throughout the reading, lounging across one of the lawyer's leather armchairs. He breathed heavily, his long fringe rising and falling with each exhalation. He was covered in long, unkempt hair and he smelled. He most certainly smelled worse than she remembered from Sophie's flat, where the dog had also been mostly asleep, on the blue armchair ("Sophie - should that be allowed? Sleeping in the armchair?" "Don't be silly. Edward is a member of the family. He may snooze wherever he chooses." "Oh."), or on the rug in front of the fireplace. But Mrs Morisson had never noticed the odour, a hairy muskiness, a definite male quality combined with an intrusive scent she could not place.

The blonde lawyer handed Mrs Morisson a box of dog utensils. Mrs Morisson wondered who had prepared these since Sophie's death was so sudden that she could not possibly have thought to tidy up. She peered inside to see a leash, two large plastic bowls and a bag with a picture of frolicking animals that she supposed must contain whatever he ate. When she looked up, the lawyer was standing, her hand outstretched.

"Thank you," said Mrs Morisson, rising up slowly and putting the box down on the mahogany. She was not sure what she was grateful for. "If there is anything more I can do, don't hesitate to call," said the lawyer, whose name Mrs Morisson could not recall. Yes, she thought, Take the dog, take the dog. But, she said nothing, smiling politely.

Left alone, she turned to Edward.

"Hello," she said.

Edward ambled along and Mrs Morisson watched his four legs moving forward and wondered if she might actually be enjoying herself. The air was green and damp from recent rain. Rain is always recent in England, she thought and smiled at her own witticism. Disparaging her country was a favourite pastime.

"I am walking a dog" was her next thought. She had seen people "walking their dogs" on television, in those soap operas that purported to be true to life but were infinitely more disaster-filled than her own experiences. Such characters would wander along, the mutt trotting playfully beside them, until they were hit by a car driven by their vengeful ex-wife or a drunken pregnant teenager. In such cases, the dog, who was most often not the target, would then sit mournfully by his owner's hospital bed, while the machines bleeped and pinged, until the inevitable final bleep. Mrs Morisson hoped that such a fate did not lie in wait for all dog-walkers.

Experimenting with the tension in Edward's leash, she began a slow circuit around the central grass area that was home to a giant willow. As a child, Mrs Morisson would steal inside the willow's canopy, imaging herself wading through forests, cutting down tall grasses that blocked her path. She would sit on the often moist earth, feeling the coolness and gazing up through the foliage, which she imagined was what Africa looked like, only with multicoloured parrots and a cacophony of animal sounds. She could sit there for hours, but parents always disturbed her thoughts, insisting she joined them for dinner or some other inconvenience.

Edward stopped and Mrs Morrison almost tripped. She was wearing what she believed they called training shoes, gleaming white, but she had yet to get used to their softness. She enjoyed shoes that were well defined as being not-feet. These were too vague; they could almost be slippers. Being outside in them made Mrs Morisson rather self conscious. Edward was sniffing another dog, a small, neat little creature with a clipped coat. She wondered how to proceed at this point, and was rather startled when someone at the other end of the little dog's leash spoke to her.

"My dog seems to like your dog." It was a man. Mrs Morisson stood up straight.

"He isn't my dog. He belongs to a friend." Why had she said that? The lie had just emerged independently. Well, it is half-true, she thought.

"Really?" The man smiled. Mrs Morisson felt uncomfortable. She didn't know this man. What right did he have to smile at her? Simply because they were both accompanied by creatures from the same species. The man said:

"He looks like he has attached himself to you."

He bent down to ruffle Edward's fur. Edward made some noise, possibly of appreciation. Mrs Morisson had thus far avoided touching him, believing it to be unnecessary. The dog would just have to get used to it.

"I don't know about that," Mrs Morisson said. "He is my friend's dog and is devoted to her. She asked me to take him for a walk, and so I agreed, just this once." More lies. Why was she telling him all this? He appeared to be listening intently.

"So, just one walk and then he goes back? I don't think he'll like that. He has taken to you," the man said. Mrs Morisson noticed his eyes, almost grey in their blueness, and his hair, dark and light metal. He was probably of a similar age to her, in his "middle years", as they said euphemistically. His teeth were in extremely good condition for a man of his age, she thought. Stop this.

"He is not my dog," she said once again, more firmly she hoped, and so that Edward would hear loud and clear.

"A pity," the man said. "He likes you."

It had been a week since Edward had come to live with Mrs Morisson, and she was worried. He seemed to sleep a lot, she noticed. He wasn't particularly active. She was unsure how he had been with Sophie, but she felt that something was wrong. Wasn't sleeping a great deal a sign of depression? He must be grieving, missing Sophie. What if he did something dangerous? Her flat was on the third floor, but she took care never to leave him there with the windows open. Mrs Morisson did not know if dogs had suicidal tendencies. She decided she needed to find out more.

In the local library, an ugly concrete monstrosity designed so that the exterior would in some way resemble the pages of a book (Mrs Morisson had been told this once, for the design certainly did not speak for itself) she asked for the section on Household Pets. Once there, she found Dogs quite easily, and, bending down to an uncomfortable lowness, looked for an appropriate read. She passed over Greater Swiss Mountain Dog: A Complete and Reliable Handbook (Rare Breed), believing Edward not to be one of these. He seemed a rather common-or-garden animal to her. She stopped for a moment at The Ultimate Diet : Natural Nutrition for Dogs and Cats, and then decided she could return later once she had found Canine Depression. However, none of the books on the shelf was devoted entirely to this subject.

Mrs Morisson picked up Dog Owner's Home Care Book, a suitably authoritative-looking tome. She opened it at the end and searched the index for Depression, Grief, or Canine Anxiety. She found nothing. Beginning at the beginning, she skimmed over Puppies: How to House Train, and Tricks for a Young Dog, persevering through Aggression Against You & Others and Neutering: A Brief Summary, but the book seemed to ignore this one vital area. All dogs in this book were cheerful souls, always bounding, when not sinking their teeth into something they should not. Mrs Morisson rose stiffly back to her normal height, and wondered what was to be done. She felt in no way reassured by the lack of books describing her situation.

By the time she returned home, she had fixed on a course of action and roused Edward, who was asleep at the foot of her favourite armchair. He got slowly to his feet and, had he been human, Mrs Morisson imagined he would have yawned largely and stretched. She affixed his leash as he stood patiently, and he trotted after her, out into the hall, through the front door and into the lift.

In the park, Mrs Morisson began walking along the path bordering the grass. With every step the feeling grew within her that she was dragging Edward, that he was sinking further into despair, mired in grief. She had to do something. She looked around. A young girl was playing with a tiny dog on the grass. A couple was walking without any animals at all on the other side of the lawn. Where was that man from last Thursday? He had seemed to understand Edward. Mrs Morisson regretted having been so unfriendly. Where was he?

Half an hour later she was sitting on a bench bordering the park perimeter, exhausted. The morning following the first walk with Edward, Mrs Morisson had hardly been able to stand up, such was the stiffness in her calves. She had hobbled around all day, anxious that her legs would not return to normal. Stairs had been especially painful. The pain had now subsided but so much air left her deflated for a time. She breathed heavily, almost panting as Edward slept at her feet.

"Hello."

The small neat dog and the man with the grey eyes stood in front of her. Mrs Morisson took a deep breath.

"Why hello," she said. "What a coincidence."

"I see you have taken to dog-walking." He sat down on the bench, a respectful distance from Mrs Morisson. He clicked his fingers and the little dog sat, looking up at him.

"My, my, you have trained him, or is it her?, very well." Mrs Morisson hoped that he would not see through her rather obvious flattery. He did not.

"It's a female, Sandy. Yes, well, I have devoted rather a lot of time to studying dog behaviour. I know her inside and out, I like to think." He laughed.

"The name is Martin. Martin Sullivan."

"Mrs Morisson," said Mrs Morisson, and they shook hands. She decided to get down to serious matters right away. "I must confess something to you," she said in what she hoped was an endearingly candid tone. Martin nodded seriously. "I was not entirely truthful about Edward. He is not my dog, he belonged to my friend, Sophie. But Sophie passed away a short while ago, and now he has come to live with me."

"I'm sorry," said Martin, and Mrs Morisson didn't quite know what he was referring to at first. "About your friend."

"Yes," she said. She didn't want to talk about Sophie. "But I am a little worried about Edward. I think he may be depressed, about losing Sophie, you know. He sleeps a great deal, and doesn't move around much. Do you know anything about this subject." She turned further towards him, folding her hands in her lap and looking at him expectantly. His face assumed an expression of deep thought.

"Well, " he said gravely after a moment. 'Dogs do grieve. It is only natural. They are quite human in that respect. Do you feed him regularly?" It seemed a rather odd question to Mrs Morrison, but she answered solemnly:

"Oh, yes, every day."

"And you call him by his name a lot?"

"Is that important?" "I believe so. It roots a dog in his or her identity. Gives them a place in the world, so to speak." Mrs Morisson stared at him in wonder. It all sounded intelligent to her. "If I were you," he continued, tapping at his chin, "I would perhaps set aside fifteen minutes in a day to sit and talk to Edward. Even if he is asleep. Tell him about your day. And perhaps, play him a little music. Do you like music?"

Mrs Morisson and Martin carried on chatting for some time, moving from music, classical and then modern, to grocery store lighting and insolent serving staff, then discussing theatrical originality and the latest cinema releases. Mrs Morisson found herself enjoying Martin's company, and hoping he would not have to leave. However, the sky darkened and the park began to empty out. Martin stood up. Mrs Morisson tried not to look disappointed. Martin opened his mouth:

"Would you care to accompany me to the cinema this weekend," he asked, very politely thought Mrs Morisson. Quite right. She accepted, and they made an arrangement to speak on the telephone. She wrote her telephone number on a piece of his paper which said 'Notes for Today' along the top, folded it and handed it to him. They said goodbye, and Mrs Morisson tugged on Edward's leash.

"Come on, now" she said. And on the way home, she tried talking to Edward a little, but found herself preoccupied with thought of the cinema. She was rather looking forward to it.

In the next weeks, Martin escorted Mrs Morisson to a variety of events and places. They went to see several matinees at the Hampstead Theatre, one of which, they both agreed, had far too much unnecessarily strong language. They drank tea together, but not at Lyons, for Mrs Morisson did not want to run into Vera, who knew nothing of Martin. Mrs Morisson did not want to have to explain. However, when Vera called after she had been out with Martin five times, she accidentally let his name slip through.

"Martin?" said Vera. "Who is Martin?"

"A friend," said Mrs Morisson. "He has a dog. He helps with Edward."

"Oh, " said Vera, sounding a little flat. Mrs Morisson was not sure why Vera should mind. One new friend did not mean one less old one, did it?

"How is Edward?" Mrs Morisson knew that Vera was changing the subject, but she followed along.

"Dogs are funny creatures. He seems happier. I talk to him every day. Sometimes I actually enjoy it. And Martin says…" Mrs Morisson paused but then felt she had the right to mention him. "…Martin says I should let him watch television, that dogs enjoy following along with story lines. Not the news."

"Oh," said Vera, sounding a little sceptical. "I have never heard of a dog that watched television."

"Well, Vera, the world is full of surprising things." Mrs Morisson left it at that. She did not want to argue with Vera.

A few days later, Mrs Morisson awoke with a lump in her throat. Her flat was quiet, it told her nothing. There was no noise. There is no noise, she thought, and, half falling out of bed, she thrust her feet into slippers and, without stopping for her dressing gown, ran out of the room.

"Edward! Edward!" she cried. That shuffling noise that usually accompanied the dog's arrival did not materialise. Her voice echoed back to her as she hurried to the kitchen. Edward was not there, his nose stuck in his food bowl. In fact his Doggie Chews appeared to be untouched since the night before. A cold shook Mrs Morisson, and she felt her bones.

She slowed down as she entered the living room. Somehow she knew, knew it in her heart even before she spotted the dog in the corner of the couch.

"Edward!" but he didn't stir. She sat beside him. He didn't move. She put her ear to where his mouth was. Nothing. Her hand on his fur felt nothing. She sat for a moment, thoughts rushing through her like wind. Resuscitation? How did she…? How could she…? Edward, poor Edward. Then she lunged for the telephone.

"Martin? Martin? Mr Sullivan?"

"Mrs Morisson, is that you?" Martin sounded sleepy and puzzled. "Is everything all right?"

"Edward," gasped Mrs Morisson. "He's not…. He's not…he isn't moving. What should I do?"

"Did you try calling him?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Maybe shake him a little."

"No, no." Mrs Morisson was becoming frustrated with Martin's lack of proper responses. "I think he is…he is…."

"I'm coming."

While she waited for Martin to arrive, Mrs Morisson watched Edward with one eye, the clock with the other. She paced a little, wondering if she should cover him with a blanket, or perhaps pour cold water on him. Oh Sophie, she thought. I am so sorry. What did I do?

When Martin arrived he strode over to the dog, but then seemed not to know the correct procedure. Do something, Mrs Morisson thought, forgetting entirely her lack of clothing. Finally Martin said:

"We will take him to my vet," and he struggled to pick Edward up. Mrs Morisson rushed to her room, forcing herself into a dress, stockings and shoes, none of which seemed to fit her. Her heart was bursting through her chest. She hurried out to the car, muttering "Edward, please, oh dear, oh dear."

"It was an aneurysm, poor Edward. Apparently his type of dogs were very susceptible," said Mrs Morisson. Vera watched her as she carefully placed her dried flowers on top of the bureau. Then she began to lay her underwear in the top drawer.

"I do hope this room is big enough for you," said Vera. "Stan used to like to work in here. He said the light in the morning was marvellous."

"I shall love it," said Mrs Morisson, stopping to gaze out of the window onto the lawn below. Two small children were playing with a dog and a ball. Something caught in her chest. She coughed, then turned away. "How about a cup of tea?" she said.

In the kitchen, Vera showed her where the jars of loose leaf tea ("oh my, what a treat") were kept, and Mrs Morisson filled up the kettle and found the teacups and saucers. When the water had boiled she poured. They sat facing each other, sipping, neither one saying anything. Mrs Morisson was thinking how she would have to get used to a new kitchen, but that it might be fun.