IN these columns I have frequently lambasted my dog Cesar as hard as I once did my son.

Somehow, just, I salvaged a relationship with Pierce after promising to leave him alone in print. Damn.

Cesar, thankfully, can’t read and has no awareness of me beyond provider of food, shelter and occasionally treats. Being an Afghan Hound, he has the added bonus of indifference – never needy or demanding of constant attention.

From the day he arrived five years ago at just a few weeks old and bit me, he and I have been engaged in a battle of wills.

At six months old he dragged me and badly broke my leg, and in the years to follow became so strong and unruly, in spite of an expensive dog trainer, that I ceased taking him anywhere.

He sensed always my weaknesses and played on them.

To a degree we have settled into a way of life, although I have no doubt he is as bored as me in the daily nothingness.

Sometimes, when the moon is full, he refuses to come in after his last pee and I wait inside until the early hours of his return, nursing my wrath to keep it warm.

Other nights he barks for hours at the closed shutters, but I no longer have visions of night marauders casing the easiest point of entry.

I have come to accept that many animals criss-cross my land and he hears every one of them.

Since my last longish stint in hospital and rehab, he has become very protective of me and no longer greets people he doesn’t know. He barks fiercely and I let them in through another door. It’s mainly deliveries of books and wine.

But did I ever ascribe empathy to him? The idea was laughable. Never. Until last week.

To keep oxygen circulating as well as it can in my body I am ordered to exercise daily – walk or treadmill – eat regularly, particularly protein, and drink at least two litres of water a day.

To be honest, I have observed little of the three commandments for months for a variety of reasons.

And so, little wonder, I fell again reaching for a dropped e-cig as I stood by the table.

Like an upturned turtle I lay, helpless, with no strength or strong muscles; unable to even pull myself up. I knew nothing was broken but I was battered and bruised and the pain was bad with every move.

My phone, of course, was up high on charge and the house shuttered and locked.

Let’s keep it short. I was on the tiles from 9pm to around 5pm the next day, every so often shuffling to something that might help me rise.

Finally, I got to the stairs and it’s curved bar and with a lot of yelling and use of the steps, yanked myself upright grabbing the old crutch which was still there from the broken knee.

Now, the point of this is not another example of the old girl falling to pieces bit by bit before your eyes. In fact, I wasn’t going to tell but I had to, in a sense, to rehabilitate Cesar.

Throughout those hours my thug lay by my side. He did not demand food or to go out and made not one mess in the house. When I made yet another futile attempt to drag myself along, he moved equally slowly beside me.

Now as I, bit by bit, return to more balanced movement, he keeps a watchful eye and stays well clear when I still rely on the crutch at times.

It’s surprising how much comfort I got from his presence. How much reassurance that I wasn’t fully alone in my misery. How the warmth of his fur took some of the chill off of those cold, hard tiles.

What would those of us who live alone, sometimes in isolated houses, do without our animal companions? In their mute way they replace those that have left – the husband, the partner, the children.

They give life to an otherwise empty, lonely house.

They are a reason to get up for those who might find little other reason.

They are a living creature to talk to while preparing their food.

One old woman, many years ago at whom I’d laughed for her constant chatter to her cat, told me: “Don’t laugh. If not for the cat, days can go by when I don’t even hear my own voice.”

Unfortunately – and I’m breaking the rules here – my son phoned a day after the fall when I was still raw enough to tell him.

Furious at yet another incident he again said: “Enough. You’re coming back.” He outlined various horror situations of me cracking my head open, being found days later having bled to death etc etc.

“Stop. Do you ever think of giving me sympathy – a bit of empathy first before berating me?”

To end the stalemate, I took the royal way and suggested he wrote down the many options he had for my consideration. “And don’t start with the words

Cesar will have to be rehomed – he couldn’t live anywhere else.”

And, frankly, neither could I without him. But I’ll deal with that another day.