The morning routine for the last few months was that we’d get up at 05:45 and I’d carry Timothy downstairs, put my clean clothes in the downstairs bathroom, turn on the kitchen lights, open the back door, and put him out on the patio. I’d then make tea while he checked the garden and did his wee. Id it was wet, he’d be quicker, but the cold didn’t affect how long he took. He’d stand on the doorstep when he was ready to come in. If I took too long, he might scratch on the door, but not often.
I’d carry him through the conservatory to the sofa, where he expected his biscuits to be in place already. Sometimes he’d turn his head as we passed a different chair – implying that he wanted that one. I’d move his biscuits, apologising for putting them in the wrong place.
I’d give Annette her tea upstairs, then have my shower. If I took too long in the shower, he’d be waiting for me on the carpet in the extension hallway – having sniffed under the door to check that I was still in there.