My dear old dog won’t be around for ever –so I will cherish every last walk | Emma Beddington

I have loved Oscar since he was a puppy. Twelve years on, the morning stroll is a challenge for both of us

Morning walks are not what they used to be. For years, my whippet, Oscar, and I would take a brisk hour's trot at eight, taking care of business, physical (him) and mental (me). His bladder and bowels got a workout; the rhythm of our steps and the changing-unchanging view provided a gulp of oxygen and thinking time for my groggy brain.

Now, Oscar arrives outside my bedroom door at about 5.45am, making a polite but insistent noise like a slowly deflating balloon. When I get up, he shadows me, still making this noise, his eyes pools of anxiety, until I give up and grab his lead. Despite every appearance of tearing impatience to get out, the minute we leave the house he grinds to a halt by the front step and licks it insistently. If I don't move him on, he will spend five minutes doing this, before peeing slowly on the spot, eyes fixed on me in a way that would be deeply creepy if I didn't know him so well.