I was 16 and standing in the doorway of my piano teacher’s studio, at what would turn out to be my final music lesson.

I had just played a rendition of a piece I would never again play as well: Beethoven’s Sonata in D minor, commonly known as The Tempest. Beneath the soft yellow light, with fingers moving across the keyboard with uncharacteristic control, I managed to catch the colours of rolling thunder and driving rain in Beethoven’s stormy soundscape. To the right, my teacher smiled as she listened. But my true critics, her three shih tzus — one a yappy little Chihuahua-cross — perched on a vintage rosewood two-seater to the left. Judging by their silent attention, they too seemed to think I had done a fine job.

It was a sliding doors moment, in front of three shih tzus and a Chihuahua cross.Credit:

“So what do you want to do now?” my piano teacher asked. She posed the question with such gentle sadness, as if she knew what was about to happen next.

Only later did I understand she had seen this ending many times before, played out in music studios around the country.

“You’re naturally quite musical,” she said. “But now you need to decide if you want to go further.”

I had started late and was an ordinary student but she had been an extraordinary teacher. A........

© The Sydney Morning Herald