There were new school shoes waiting in the hall. Scout’s uniform was not as ridiculously big as it had been a year ago and she no longer needed my help to put it on. September had swung round again but it was different from all the other Septembers.

‘I can do it myself,’ Scout said, struggling gamely with the buttons of her yellow shirt. ‘Even the socks.’

First thing in the morning and from the window of our loft I could see the dome of St Paul’s surrounded by an untouched blue sky, but down on the street the breath of the Smithfield porters made misty clouds.

On that first day of term we had breakfast at Smiths of Smithfield as a special treat – porridge with honey for me and pancakes for Scout, grapefruit juice for both of us and the best triple espresso this side of Soho. Then we walked to school, kicking through the leaves and conkers underfoot, Scout with Stan’s lead wrapped twice around her hand, the dog’s tail erect and feathery, as flamboyant as a peacock’s feathers, his round eyes gleaming with anticipation and his fur exactly the same shade of burnished chestnut as the autumn leaves.

You could feel the time passing, and you could even taste it in the crisp morning air, but it was a good feeling.

When Stan and I said goodbye to Scout at the school gates it was a shock to realise that she was no longer the youngest or the smallest. She fell into smiling step with her friend Mia, and Stan whimpered with grief to see her go. But of course she never looked back at us.

And as we were walking home Stan caught the scent of a Labradoodle bitch on the far side of the street and without warning hurled himself into the traffic.

I pulled him out from under the wheels of a florist’s van and called the Well Animal Clinic as soon as I got home. He retreated to the sofa and watched me on the phone with mournful eyes, his head resting on his front paws in classic Cavalier style.

‘I’m sorry, Stan,’ I said, hanging up. ‘But what else can I do?’

The world was turning and nothing could stop it.

‘He’s good off lead,’ Scout told the vet on Friday night. ‘And he’s good on lead. It’s just . . .’

She shook her head, her voice trailing off, and we three humans stared at Stan on the vet’s table, the dog jumping up to lick my face, his paws against my chest, desperate to demonstrate his unconditional love, trying to ingratiate himself even at this late hour, still with total faith that I could save him from his fate.

The vet laughed and scratched Stan behind the ears and finished Scout’s sentence for her.

‘It’s just that you’re growing up, aren’t you, Stan?’