I no longer have anyone who can lick the bowl or the plate. Or quickly take care of that last piece of cheese or meat that won’t fit on the sandwich.

It is difficult and depressing, adjusting to life without my darling Brownie.

This is the last time you will see our cute photo topping this column.

I am sorry about that for several reasons: It is a great pic of the two of us, and especially of me. I don’t take good photos. But I loved this one. The only one better was taken years ago, in the bikini on the Harley. But I can’t use that one, so I must have a new one taken, of me. Alone. I will try not to look sad.

Sadness is a part of everyday life now. I don’t have my constant companion, dogging my every step. I often felt like a creature with six legs. Seven, if you count the cane.

Some of you have told me how, after you’ve lost your dear doggies, you can still hear their little toes clicking on the floor. I hear that. While watching TV, I sometimes hear her sighing in her chair next to mine. I can’t stop glancing down at her placemat, wondering if there is enough water in her dish. There is no dish.

One of the most difficult things is going down the driveway to get the paper and the mail. This was always our special daily trek, her trailing behind, sniffing along, then spotting me and bounding forward, that lovely smile on her cute little face. Oh, how I miss that lush, always-wagging tail. I don’t walk down the driveway anymore; I pick up the papers and mail when I happen to drive by. It’s easier, but it’s no fun at all.

I especially remember the day we discovered the big pile of bear “doo” in the driveway. We were both so excited!

Funny, but now that Brownie’s gone, creatures have reappeared in my yard. Not that she ever chased a rabbit, or purposefully scared off any critter. Now, I have two big bunnies who seem fearless. I have countless chipmunks, darting hither and yon. I have a large deer who visits at dusk, and in the bright light of day, and snacks on my flowers in the pots. I don’t really mind. They’re my “pets” now; I delight in spying on them. I don’t think I’d even mind spotting the occasional bear wandering across the lawn. Provided I’m not out there at the time.

I do not believe I will be getting another dog. I think about it occasionally. It’s something folks have urged me to do. But no. First, I’ve already had the best dog anyone could hope for: Brownie did not bark. She loved other dogs, and certainly enjoyed meeting people. Sure, she wandered off — escaped, actually — from time to time, but I always found her at one of the places I knew she’d be: At other people’s houses, tail wagging. She had a “boyfriend,” Roscoe, who lives down the lane, across busy Route 220. One morning, after a long night of her ignoring my pleading cries, I found her curled up in bed with Roscoe. His owner said, “I think we’ve got a romance going on.”

I now hear Roscoe, a big beagle boy, howling from time to time. I swear, I think he’s calling Brownie. I don’t begrudge him that piercing, pitiful howl. I do it myself, occasionally.

I’ve never been lonely a day in my life. Until now. I had no idea how much I’d miss my little companion. Her place beside my desk, while I work, is empty now. There’s no sighing, no groaning, no little yips while she dreams.

I no longer have anyone who can lick the bowl or the plate. Or quickly take care of that last piece of cheese or meat that won’t fit on the sandwich. I only fix one bowl of ice cream, not two. I don’t bring home the extra bacon from my restaurant breakfast, wrapped in a greasy napkin, knowing that it will be snarfed up in moments, with a tail wagging happily.

That’s it: There’s no more “happy” around the house. I have a sticker on my back door. It states: “Wag more. Bark less.” There never was any barking. But there sure was a lot of wagging going on. Sigh.

Thanks very much for your kind, heartfelt notes of sympathy. They mean a lot to me. Just like Brownie did.