Our dog, Ivan, recently gave us a bit of a scare. When we returned home from school, he was dashing around the garden like a puppy, despite being months past his 14th birthday. But, by teatime, he was staggering like he had had one too many, dribbling like a tap, and refusing to touch his food. I feared the worst. You see, he has been a constant in my life these past 14 years. We bought him as newly weds, just a few short months after tying the knot. Since then, we’ve had three kids, lived in six different houses in four different towns, and had more jobs between us than I can count. Besides my husband, Ben, the one thing that has been there every day is the dog. Each morning he has greeted me joyfully, curled up for a nap in the crook of my leg at every opportunity, and gladly snaffled treats from my hand whenever I’d let him. The good news is, after having him checked over and being told to give him a few day’s rest and show him lots of TLC, he’s now almost back to normal. But it’s forced me to acknowledge that he won’t be with us forever, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.