We hear a lot about charity CEOs – their salaries, their perks, their company cars.

What we don’t hear about is the CEO who spends hours driving around in the pouring rain searching for one of her retired dogs, grabs a few hours’ sleep, and then goes back out at six o’clock in the morning to continue the search.

Our dog Fleur, who retired from Dogs for the Disabled a few years ago, went missing recently. She’s very special; my partner PJ lives with dementia and Fleur is his dog.

A wise old girl, she knows her place, which is wherever she wants to be, doing whatever she wants to do. Having reached the ripe old age of 13 and three-quarters – her four score and more – Fleur is enjoying her golden years, quietly directing operations from the cushions that litter our floors like stepping stones.

While we don’t allow dogs in the bedroom, Fleur is oblivious to this and nudges open the bedroom door with her nose. No longer able to jump up onto the bed, she slumps down beside it, snoring softly like the refined old lady she is.

No longer able to jump up onto the bed, she slumps down beside it, snoring softly like the refined old lady she is

When she’s hungry, I get her wet-nosed nudge, and when she fancies a walk, she stands by the door wagging her greying tail. If I try to hurry her while she buries her nose in the wet grass and sniffs the pavement, I get the side-eye that says, “I won’t be around forever, you know.”

We walk the same route every morning, a lively pack of seven dogs and three women; the dogs as pleased to see each other as we are. Together we head off through the forest, pausing for a swim in the river and a roll in something best not spoken about – the dogs, that is. It’s a lovely life.

But on our walk a few weeks ago, Fleur got lost.

It’s happened before; she’s easily distracted by a scent or the disappearing tail of a rabbit, but this time she didn’t come back.

We started looking straight away, calling her name along the familiar paths and checking all the places she usually wandered, beginning to get worried when there was still no sign of her an hour later.

Every rustle in the undergrowth raised our hopes only to dash them again and, before we knew it, two hours had passed, then three, and as the day faded, so did our confidence. My phone pinged constantly with messages from friends who were searching too. “Have you tried there?” “Any sign?”

When it got too dark to search any further, we reluctantly went home. Telling PJ that Fleur was missing was awful. She’s so much more than a pet; she’s his constant companion – his dog-wife, I call her.

There was no sleep that night, just long hours listening to the incessant rain, imagining the worst, thinking of our lovely girl out there alone, cold and confused.

As soon as it got light the next morning, we struck out searching again and, after nearly 24 hours, 48,000 steps, and increasing monetary offers to Saint Anthony and anyone else listening, we found her.

Or rather, Jenn, the CEO of Dogs for the Disabled, found her.

Stranded on a riverbank, having found a sheltered spot beneath the trees, she looked up as if to say, “Oh, there you are. What took you so long?”

Wet, muddy, slightly bewildered – like us all.

She’s still not telling us where she went or what she did. I hope it was the best day of her life – but a one-off too. I don’t want to go through that again, and, more importantly, I don’t want her to go through that again.

The days we spend with our dogs are short, and there’s nothing like a day without yours to remind you of that.

But now Fleur is back where she belongs, supervising proceedings from the nearest cushion, where I hope she will stay until she reaches “the place that she was seeking when she stopped here to rest… her final linoleum floor”.