“Write about dogs" they say, when I moan that I’m late again with copy and my mind is stunningly devoid of original ideas, having been moodily preoccupied with nicotine withdrawal for the past week. I can’t write about giving up smoking, again. It would bore me, never mind you. Suffice to say I’m through the first seven days, I’m narky as hell, I’m full of a rumbling volcanic energy that feels good to be in touch with again. And I’m cheerfully clearing my lungs of a lot of gunk. But, God, do I want something in my mouth. Something hot and dangerous and dark and sweet and satisfying...

Concentrate. Hard to concentrate, I’m awash with feeling, flooded, adrift. My only emotional regulator, smoking, is over, and I don’t know how to temper the peaks and troughs of mood without it, yet. But I know I’ll calm down soon. Never mind. Dogs, my friends suggest. We’re at Ed’s place having pasta and salad on our laps on the sofa. Ed, whom I’ve known for 20 years, with whom I feel utterly comfortable and loved, whose gentleness masks a wonderfully fierce smouldering fire, that few get to see. And Ed’s lover, whom I haven’t seen in a few years, as they broke up; but recently they’ve got back together again.

Everyone’s happy, for nobody really understood why they broke up in the first place. They are in a fluidly relaxed state with each other, the calm borne of intimacy, and fleeting, but frequent, physical touching. Both are my age, heading for40; both are balding men’s men with greying hair and scraggy clothes and warm kind eyes. They are the sort of men I want lots of hugs from, always.

Ed’s lover walks dogs for his living, now. When he got his dog, a mongrel with labrador blood in there somewhere, he was amazed to find how his life changed. Walking the dog in the morning, he has met a vibrant community of other people doing the same thing, with whom he’s become friends. So much so that some of them offered to pay him to walk or mind their dogs. Now he’s working on training the dogs he walks during the day to work well in a pack.

I’ve been a cat person for years, and my two four-year-olds keep my flat alive when I’m not there. I have no illusions about them; they do not really care who feeds them, for they are greater friends to each other than they are to any human being. They don’t like to go outside, preferring to sit on the ground-floor windowsill and watch the leaves rustle.

In many ways we just get by together, in a very low-maintenance indifferent way. But it’s not to say I don’t feel for them; when one of them developed a tumour the size of a golf-ball in her belly last year, I was taken aback by how nervous I was, to the point of shaking, in the vet’s waiting room.

It’s only recently that I’ve begun to really notice dogs, and to consider having one. It started on holiday in Italy – an artist who was selling me a bronze sculpture of a sperm on a couch had a dog with whom I fell in love immediately. She was enormous, with snow-white thick hair and brown pools of eyes, and looked like a slender polar bear. They use them in the Italian mountains as sheepdogs, and they are a clever and gentle breed. Her name was Luna, and she captured my heart, having stood guard as I arrived at his villa and fiercely defended her territory; then, once her master had shook my hand, she became a lovable tart, rolling over and demanding that her tummy be rubbed. I knew then instantly that one of her grandchildren or great-grandchildren would come in to my life, at some stage.

To love dogs is to attune yourself to instinctive pack behaviour, to think animalistically, primitively, to tap yourself into an ancient body language of near-tribal hierarchy and loyalty. It’s about relearning childlike fun, about appreciating different kinds of intelligence. To allow yourself a dog is to allow yourself to be the focus of another sentient being’s life, to enter into a bond that is unlike any other. It’s a commitment that reaps rewards. And it’s a huge responsibility. But responsibility expands our sense of self, I’m coming to realise; it doesn’t diminish.

My nice cleaner man, Barry, who kept the courtyards in our estate clean with a great good humour, has left. He’s been replaced by two young loud lads, and I’ve not been sure how to take them. I must be getting old, I like regularity.

When I was pottering with my plants the other day, one of the lads was busy sweeping and hosing down the courtyard. As the October sun was pleasantly warm, he put down the hose and pulled his teeshirt back over his head, revealing a taut chocolate coloured torso and a silver nipple ring and inky black tattoos trailing like a climbing rose over his shoulder.

He stretched his limbs into the air, the water sprayed in the sunshine from the hose creating a mist, and I was mesmerised. I felt that he was displaying like a peacock, and my time slowed down, with pleasure. With a cheeky "Allo" he passed by, and I grinned, determined not to fall for such outrageous flirting. Yes he was edible, but these days men flirt for the fun of it, even if they’re straight. Think David Beckham, English hero, delighted to pose for the gay boyz.

But yesterday I came home, and in the middle of the courtyard was this small but perfectly formed Bassett hound, sitting up, watching the world go by with interest. Beautiful eyes, floppy long ears, utterly langorous, yet bright. And not in the least bit interested in me.

I wanted him to be interested in me. A lot. As I was parking my bike, his owner called him, and I turned to see who was the lucky man – and of course it was peacock man, grinning broadly at me, proud as punch that I’d been admiring his dog. I smiled sheepishly and said hello and went into my flat.

So. Flirty peacock man has a charming dog with personality and dignity.

This changes things.