Robert the Westie. My life. By me.

1. Of Lockerbie and Basingstoke.

Introduction

Okay, I know what you're thinking. Yes I do. Now that's not because I'm a mind reader, though I was always pretty sure what was on my master's mind during my days on earth. No, it's partly because I'm smart. Well, all West Highland Terriers are. Just ask anybody with one of us in the family. They'll tell you. I remember my master reading me an excerpt from a dog handbook. "A confident, bossy and opinionated breed," they called us. No self-esteem issues here, clearly.

But I digress. I know what you're thinking because it's bloody obvious. You're thinking; dogs can't write autobiographies. Probably you're also thinking, even more basically, hang, on, dogs can't write, period. And, of course, you're right.

Nevertheless, here it is: my life, by me. Actually the explanation is simple, so long as you suspend your disbelief for just a moment. It goes like this. Here I am in Dog Heaven, daydreaming about lovely summer days in England's green and pleasant land, outstanding walks on sunny afternoons, and, in particular, a very rewarding riverside picnic in Kingston-upon-Thames, when I hear this voice in my head. It's the voice of a woman and she's saying "Hi Roberty."

Yes, that was my nickname, a bit wet, perhaps, but it could have been worse. The Westie down the road in the New Forest was called Michael Jackson because the owners were so proud of his whiteness. Makes you want to weep, doesn't it? Anyway, I'm telling you about this voice.

"It's Sophie she says, quite clearly. "You remember. I hung out with Steve, Danny and you after Frankie, my shit of a husband, quit these shores and vanished to Canada. Well, I was just making myself a cup of tea and recalling that hysterical Kingston picnic where you wolfed down all the smoked salmon, and, wham, there you were in my head, clear as day. And somehow I could understand that you were reminiscing about the same event."

I didn't know what to think, or say. And if I had, I didn't know whether my thoughts would immediately transmit to Sophie, thus making anything said essentially redundant. I vaguely recalled that Sophie Veron had built a career in the rather marginal world of astrology, palmistry and tarot cards. So her sudden appearance in my afterlife as a medium was less of a shock than it might have been.

Then the realisation dawned. Of course, it was no surprise that she had spoken in a language that I understood. Humans still believe that we understand them through their gestures or our intuition or sheer guesswork. That's rubbish, of course. Our genetic memory equips us perfectly to understand what out human friends are saying.

What was surprising, though, was that she had understood me! Now that was as startling, and as improbable, as a Star Trek moment when the ugly alien opens his mouth and issues his demands in perfect English. She seemed completely oblivious to her remarkable ability. "Are you still there?" she enquired in my head.

"Yes," I replied tentatively.

"Oh good, I've never had a dog before."

I won't bore you with the rest of the conversation, but a conversation it indeed was. Once I had recovered from my initial surprise, we shared a stroll down memory lane. To be honest, I found it just a little upsetting, the abrupt rush of memories, the almost tangible recreation of moments long forgotten, the recollection of those closest to me, missed to this day and cherished for their love and kindness.

"You were right in the thick of it, weren't you?" she observed, commenting on the lives I had known and, mainly, loved. "In fact, your take on the closing moments of the twentieth century would make for a damn good read. I've been in touch with Napoleon the last few months, and he though he might dictate a new memoir to me, but he seems to have lost the urge. I might well have some time on my hands. I dare say Josephine suffered the same problem."