"He knows when you're happy. He knows when you're comfortable. He knows when you're confident. And he always knows when you have carrots."

This might sound obvious, but pets are a subject that will divide a room; those who have owned and loved an animal, and those who haven't. 

Most people can empathise with the crushing weight of loss when their friend goes through a break-up, or when someone close to them loses a family member, or receives some shocking news. We know what to do, what sympathies to offer. 

But with pets, the bond is closer - and not many people really get it unless they've been there. It's a relationship that happens almost entirely on a one-on-one basis; the walks, the training, the clearing up, the feeding, and it happens 365 days a year.

And never has that complete trust and bond been more acute - or, indeed, more important - than between a horse and it's owner.

I was 16 when I bought my first horse after 10 years of lessons, loaning, and hanging around my sister at the stables trying to bag a ride on hers. It was the second equine addition to our family. 

Huge, imposing, lively (translated into horse speak: "not a novice ride"); a handsome beast who held his head high and - much to the despair of my rear end - preferred to jog rather than walk. Not being the tallest girl in the world as a teenager - or ever, come to think of it -  the words "pea on a mountain" were a common utterance at shows, and it was often suggested that Velcro would be a good extra for my saddle when we took to the showjumping or cross country course due to the sheer power and height in his jump.

We spent a lot of time together, me and him. Summer days, winter nights, Christmas Day, and days when ice froze the water buckets and fingers felt like they'd never be warm again. I fell off, I got back on. We'd set off on ambling hacks around the London suburbs, I'd swear at drivers who came too close to us and hold softly spoken, entirely one-sided conversations while his ears flicked back and forth in response.

He waited patiently while I travelled as a 19 year old, then came to university with me. He slowed his fast pace when friends and boyfriends "had a go". Eventually, when the time came for me to return to London, he stayed. My replacement was taller than me, but had my name. She took over his care, but he remained mine.

Last week, I rushed up to see him after getting an email saying he wasn't well. By the time I arrived, he seemed brighter than I'd expected - and even after a while apart, his head flew up and he marched over to the gate when I called his name. I fussed, hugged and advised on what to do. I fed him copious amounts of carrots, took photos and reluctantly left him a couple of hours later, chomping away on his dinner, reassured that he was on the road to, if not improvement, then at least a graceful retirement.

So it was a bit of a shock when, two days later, I got an early phone call from the stables telling me that he had died, suddenly, but naturally, in his stable that morning.

Not everyone will be able to understand that strange little connection owners have with their horses, the best I can explain is this: losing your horse after twelve years is a bit like saying goodbye to a very old friend.

Sometimes it's unexpected, occasionally it's for the best, but it's always sad. And on some level, I think everyone can probably relate to that.