I have just returned home after pretending to go for a walk with my dog Archie. I have had to pretend I am going for a walk with Archie every morning so far this week. You see, Archie has very exacting standards. He believes that when he goes for a walk in the morning, the whole pack should come with him (as they do every school day).

He does not approve of half term arrangements which mean my poor husband attempts to take him on his own while the rest of us stay at home. Archie bounds out of the house happily enough, but as soon as he realises it’s just the two of them, he lowers his rear end with exaggerated slowness and sits on our front drive. The deliberateness of his action seems to say ‘I am disappointed in you. Do you really think this meets the requirements of a morning walk? I expected better.’

So I have taken to pretending I’m going too; walking the first 30 yards or so, subtly slowing down, then turning for home once Arch gets in his stride. Of course, if I turn too soon, he plants himself on the pavement and waits for me to catch up.

Archie is a character. He is a Jack Russell. Same thing. Quite a few people who’ve met Archie have said that I should write a story about him and for a while now I have been contemplating writing some kind of dog diary. ‘The Diary of Archibald Rainford, age 4 ½ (or 30 in dog years)’ maybe.

Of course I know there have been lots of similar books, but it wasn’t until a few weeks ago, whilst rummaging around in a secondhand book sale, that I discovered the delightful ‘A Dog Day’ by Walter Emanuel and Cecil Aldin. At first I thought I’d discovered a forgotten classic, but it turns out this charming little book is far from forgotten – it’s had numerous reprints since its first publication in 1902 and, if the reviews on Amazon are anything to go by, is still very much treasured by many people today.

What I like about it is that, while the lifestyle of the middle class humans that Emanuel describes is very much of its time, the characteristics of the terrier are timeless. The diary entry for 6.30 is one of my favourites. ‘Upstairs, past the drawing room. Door of old Mrs Brown’s bedroom open invitingly. I entered. Never been in before. Nothing much worth having. Ate a few flowers out of a bonnet. Beastly.’ Apart from a few period details (and the fact that he can’t actually write), Arch could have penned these words himself.

I must add that Aldin’s drawings are also timeless. And full of charm.

It would be nice to think that, if Arch and I do ever get round to collaborating on his diary, it might be similarly enduring.