I've been living under intense surveillance for the past 13 years. Every movement monitored. Every step followed. Every conversation overheard.

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It hasn't been easy, let me tell you.

I am watched when showering. Observed when reading. Scrutinised when eating. Privacy is impossible. You think I'm paranoid? Meet Archie, my Cavoodle, my shadow, my stalker, my ageing friend.

Even the loo offers no sanctuary. First comes the faint tap of paws. Then a small black nose nudges the door. His face peers in.

Making sure I haven't made a bolt for freedom through the window.

He's been this way since he arrived, an anxious pup with an insatiable appetite for love, company and anything remotely edible. I never walk without him a step behind. Never sit without his relentless attempts to squirm into my lap.

Archie has a younger sister, Lola. She's affectionate, too. But a normal dog. By day's end she prefers solitude, exhausted by the emotional neediness of her brother.

Lately, however, my shadow has begun slowing down. His eyes are clouding. His coat, once a peppery black, is now heavily salted. On cold mornings arthritis hunches his back and stiffens his legs.

He still eats with the frenzied desperation of a starving puppy.

But time has marked him. It's coming for him.

This is the awful pact we make with our pets. They enter our homes offering companionship. But the cost is a time-lapse version of our own lives, a fast-forwarded journey from youngster to old age, from vigour to frailty.

Archie's infirmities are mine writ large. I need reading glasses to check his milky eyes. I must stretch my own suspect lower torso before placing a harness around his aching back.

I know what comes next. Maybe next year. Hopefully later. But I'm not ready for that and neither is he.

So I'm delighted to announce that, after 13 years of his dutiful service, the surveillance business at our place is under new management. Now it's me scrutinising Archie's every move. When he sleeps I monitor the rising of his chest. Long walks have become short strolls. Sticks that once sparked furious pursuits are no longer thrown.

Last week a friend texted to say her 14-year-old Cavoodle had just been put down. The dog had entered her life after the sudden death of her husband. It stayed beside her through a subsequent cancer battle, a loyal sentry guarding her bedridden days.

I called her to commiserate. It wasn't long before........

© Canberra Times