I have a small black dog named Cleo. She is resplendent, energetic, crazy yet lazy, and melts the hearts of even the toughest of geezers and blokiest of blokes.

She’s a beauty. Covered in black fur with wisps of silvery grey, she’s a bouncing optimistic little dream (nightmare?) that I couldn’t live without. I’d never in my wildest dreams thought of myself as falling for a tiny dog. I’m a tallish, broad man with a serious face and people would probably expect to see me with a bulldog or something. And yet, this pandemic pup stole my heart in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible several years earlier.

Every morning, without fail, I’m woken by Cleo’s excitable, tail-wagging, early bird demeanour, punctuated with various licks and head buts which in no uncertain terms translates to English as “Get up you lazy b*stard… it’s time to start the day… FFS get up!”

On one particular morning, last year, I had received the usual dawn greeting from Cleo. I had been drinking the night before and, whilst I didn’t feel the full ravages of one of those hangovers that makes you question how you awoke at all, I did have a somewhat thick head, dry mouth and creeping anxiety over whether or not I had said something embarrassing the night before.

Cleo, just looked at me, with the same, earnest expression of desperation and frustration.

Suddenly, I noticed whilst rubbing my arm that a circular patch of smooth skin was present on my otherwise hairy right forearm.

“Weird…” I remember thinking. “Did I do something stupid last night? Did I shave a patch of my arm hair off just to see what would happen?”

Surely not… I wasn’t that drunk, and besides, that’s the sort of thing you do in your teens, not your thirties.

I didn’t think about it much after that, but it was noticeable to me. Not least just how perfectly round and smooth the patch was.

However, as the weeks rolled by, odd thoughts started to creep into my mind. “Am I dying… is this the end? Should I go and see a doctor?”

I was vaguely familiar with alopecia, but in my mind, for whatever reason, I pictured a cancer patient who had undergone chemotherapy, resulting in severe hair loss. As far as I knew, aside from asthma which I’ve had all my life, I was fit and healthy.

My GP gave me a leaflet on alopecia areata, and informed me that it was random, it just happens, it's an autoimmune disorder and it could just get better on its own, making a crossed fingers with her right hand, which didn’t reassure me if I’m honest…or it could get worse.

I was quite worried. I have been shaving my head anyway since my late twenties, but the prospect of losing my beard and possibly eyebrows was mortifying.

Several weeks later I noticed that the hair on my head was growing back patchy too. A large hole in the side of my head made me look like a leopard after a day or two. It became clear that I had to start clean shaving my head with a razor every day (up to that point I had been buzzing it once a week).

My experience of alopecia is that it is incredibly anxiety provoking. I don’t want to lose my beard. I don’t want to lose my eyebrows. They are two features of my head which I am actually happy with.

But what I have come to realise and accept with alopecia is that, talking about the condition makes everything easier.

I spent most of this year hardly talking about it all and trying to cover it up where possible. I felt like it was the sort of thing that people wouldn’t take seriously. It’s not like a broken bone or a life-threatening disease. But the truth is, to feel completely helpless over something that is happening to your body, something that everyone can see, is stressful, depressing, frustrating and deeply confusing.

Once I began to talk about it with my loved ones, friends and family I felt lighter, more accepting of the future and reassured in the fact that, even if I do end up losing my beard, it’s not going to make any difference to how anyone thinks of me.

So that’s why I return to my little black dog, Cleo, who wakes me up every morning, even when I’ve been out on the drink the night before.

In many ways my relationship with this dog should serve as a healthy reminder of how our relationships are with anyone we love or admire. I think I’ve come to terms with this as a universal fact now, and that is…I love my dog, and it’s not because of her hair.