IT was very upsetting for Mrs Smith.

She had got up especially early specifically to take the dog out for a walk.

Lately, she had really started to enjoy these morning strolls when the roads and paths were quiet and it was just her and the dog.

It had been a long time since she had experienced life when the dew was still on the grass and the birds were singing without the rude interruption of the sound of motor cars racing to work. At first, it had been a chore, partly because she had become so used to her own wee routine. She had resisted getting out of bed until the very last second when Brandy, secure in his cage, had recognised that it was past ‘walkies’ time and started to whine dolefully and not very tunefully.

She had muttered under her breath, as she clipped on his lead and tutted as he strained, pulling her out the door. Once underway, however, once the old legs were moving and the circulation had warmed up, she felt much better. Probably, in fact, the happiest she had been for a long time.

So when she descended the stairs that morning, a new found spring in her step, she had been really looking forward to Brandy's excited face and his wagging tail, as he eagerly anticipated his morning constitutional. That morning, however, it was obvious something was wrong.

There was no noise, no scraping at the cage door, no high pitched whine. At first she thought he was still sleeping, he was curled up so comfortably. But then, when he didn't stir, her heart sank and she put a wrinkled hand to her mouth. She paled a little, before her long distant nurse's training took over and she went into automatic pilot.

She opened the cage door and put her hand on his soft head. He didn't move. He was cold. Rigor mortis had already set in.

Now, for the first time in her life, she was at a complete loss what to do. She had never felt so alone. Even after her husband had died, she had known the process she had to work through. Now, with Brandy's death, she was at a complete loss. Because Brandy was not her dog. Brandy belonged to her favourite niece and Mrs Smith had only agreed to look after him while she was away on holiday because she had been let down by a kennel at the last moment.

Despairingly, Mrs Smith realised she knew nothing. She didn't know how to get in touch with her niece, or even exactly where she was. She didn't know who Brandy's vet was.

She had absolutely no idea what to do with a dead dog or what her niece would want to happen.

Mrs Smith found us in an old, much thumbed copy of Yellow Pages and we visited to collect Brandy and kept him, awaiting her niece's return. Some discussion before she left for distant shores would have saved a lot of heartache.