Parents, husbands, lovers and friends are all very well, but they are not dogs.
Elizabeth Von Arnim, 1936

I love climbing mountains, I enjoy a walk along a river and I like strolling to the pub. Each of these are satisfying in their own way, but having a dog at my side will always make it better. In terms of walking partner, to misquote George Orwell, two legs good, four legs better.

It’s been a winter of dark, wet and wind and I have my dog to thank for keeping me sane. She’s been nudging me out of the door – blind to the elements – often against my better judgment. Dogs are all or nothing – they don’t do half-hearted. They pull you along pavements, splash through puddles, crash through the bracken. They transform moody November tramps, light up icy February blasts and breeze through the stifling heat of August. You know they’re having the time of their lives because it’s written all over their faces. The truth is that without a dog, the British weather would kill my best intentions to get out the door.

Our retriever helps us sense the changing seasons. She hounds after hares in Springtime and truffle-hunts in the Autumn leaf mould. But most of all, she loves the deep cold of winter, back-rubbing on thick frost, thinking she’s Baloo from Jungle Book. And of course, while a log fire is a fine thing in itself, the end of the winter’s walk is only complete when frost-nipped paws are stretched out on the hearthrug.

Like small children, dogs help you see beauty in the tiny details of life. When my children were little, I soon abandoned the idea that we had to reach a certain place by a set time, and began walking at their pace. This made the whole thing much more enjoyable. Dogs do the same for their owners, reminding them of the wild that’s just out of sight: the scent of fox, glimpse of deer, possible prey.

Dogs should come on prescription, considering what they do for your mental health. Our dog is now a venerable ten years old, and she has seen me through a few ups and downs. Unfazed by the worldly success or failure of their owner, a dog’s constancy never waivers. And being ‘more dog’ is the very definition of living in the present. As Michelle Paver shows in ‘Wolf Brother,’ there is no past or future for a canine, only now. When it’s my turn for ‘walkies’ and I’m spending too long at the laptop she’ll lay her head on my feet and begin to talk to me. This conversation begins as a gentle sigh or throat-rumble, intensifying to a Jurassic yawn. It’s a satisfyingly primitive sound which summons the wild as we move towards the wellies.

One question for the dog owner is what to do with your mobile. I used to make work calls or have family catch-ups as we strolled, until I realised I was not really there with my dog. I’d be keying in that all important emoji while a kingfisher glittered passed me, or planning family Christmas presents while the heron was lifting its cranky limbs off the flooded footpath. Now I leave it at home more, which helps me pay a little more attention for what’s coming round the next hedgerow.

So, as I lever off my mud-caked boots and reach for the dog towel, I realise that none of these outdoor moments would have happened were it not for my canine companion. Yes, these last few months of mud, rain and wind have been tough, but my daily tramps with the dog have taught me to love the variety of winter. And anyway, we’ve now reached the point where the sun is gradually making a comeback. This helps to remind me that most of the things in life that bring me down are temporary. There will be sun, and brighter walks ahead.