The sun has risen higher during its approach to the vernal equinox, however, and has struck less and less of the couch, till today it’s lit only about a foot on the southern end. As I write, Kiki has abandoned the now-shadowed cushion and, lying flat on the hardwood floor, is following the sunny semicircle’s snaillike pace toward the east. Reading from a tablet a few feet away, I have to change the format to make the words more easily visible in the bright light. All very peaceful and serene.

It’s just the two of us, Kiki and I, here now. We’re not rattling around in the house; but she follows me almost everywhere I go, so there’s a lot of it unoccupied most of the time. On the occasions I can’t see or hear her, I go find her, to make sure she’s not reducing something useful or sentimental to rubble.

She does her demolition work in what I call her butcher shop – the aforementioned couch. Two days ago it was a Bic pen: razor-sharp shards of clear plastic that, thankfully, she didn’t try to swallow. Yesterday I looked everywhere for a little instrument called an AC sensor (you hold it against a wire or stick it into a wall socket to see if it’s “hot”), but no soap. I’d set it down somewhere. She came slowly into the room a couple of hours later and dropped a little white cap onto the floor for my inspection. I knew right away what it was, and checked the butcher shop. Yep. The rest of my sensor, chewed to a chowder. There’s no point in any discipline beyond remonstrance; dogs, unlike us, apparently don’t feel guilt. And both those objects were remarkably like the tooth-cleaning chewies I give her when I’m leaving the house.

Our lives have settled pretty much into a routine. At first I thought it might be dull for her, but I’ve since learned that dogs like regular routines. (Remember Lassie, finally come home, waiting for young Joe in the schoolyard?) So up at six and let her out, to scour the yard for dangerous predators; shower, breakfast, and urgent e-mails. Then off to see Mother. If I have no other stops, she can come with me; otherwise, into her crate with the brand-new “dogproof” mat and an admonition not to chew it – again.

When I’ve finished lunch, she’s already kipped out on the couch. I settle down to a crossword puzzle, dozing, and answering sales calls till a bit before two. She usually moves over and goes to sleep between my knees, facing my feet while I do my puzzle. She looks completely comatose, but the slightest sound of capping my pen snaps her to her feet, ready to go. (She won’t do that for a bit; that’s the pen she ate.) Down to get the mail. The woods are two feet deep in snow, but the driveway, where the strengthening sun can reach, is just about clear. Which reminds me of my least favorite time of the New England year: mud season. There are old black-and-white photos of 1920s cars unbelievably mired in knee-deep soup. It’s not quite that bad anymore, but it’s still pretty fearsome. Kiki has no shoes to take off each time she comes in, so I’ll have a pan of water and a rag by the back door to give her a foot bath.

This has been our first winter together. I was kind of laid up for a lot of it, but we managed to get out most days for our walk in Hubbard Park. She may be from Texas, but she’s loved the snow since the first moment she saw it: leaping out of the groomed trail to bound chin-deep after imaginary prey out in the hemlocks; then back to make sure I’m still upright and moving.

In midwinter we had to be out of the woods by around four to be on the safe side. Now, six still sees the sun in the sky. We trundle home, with her scanning the sidewalks for dogs – Montpelier’s got a lot of ‘em – and we put the car away for the night. Then, “Okay, I’ve taken you for your walk, you’ve had a treat, and now it’s my turn.” I heat up the sauna and hop in; she sits, oddly quiet, while I bake. Quick shower, dress for the evening, and a peaceful quarter-hour with Jack Daniel and a snack. I’m such a penny-pincher that the cubes in the ice maker have sublimated to the size of peanuts before I get to them. She likes the ritual because there’s usually a little bite of kielbasa in it for her.

After supper, the absence of our third party is most noticeable. Kiki sleeps in a swivel chair behind me or on a pad on my desk. I check the weather forecast and hope the sugar-makers are happy. Finally, another day done, it’s off to bed. Just two dogs, one old, one young, waiting together for spring.