I'VE lost my faithful old four-legged pal. Toby was a little Lancashire Heeler, a bow-legged, black-and-tan, terrier-sized pet of uncertain temperament (particularly snappy with young children, though he didn't mind having a nip at adult visitors).

To be absolutely truthful, he was a bit of a liability.

Slightly incontinent in his advancing years, and embarrassingly musty smelling, despite frequent shampooing, he could never be relied upon to obey instructions. A deaf ear was normally turned towards commands to sit, come to heel or to stop straining and choking himself when on his lead He'd occasionally start yapping for no particular reason, and if the front doorwas left just a fraction ajar, Toby would immediately seize the opportunity to dash out on to the busy road outside. How he ever avoided being flattened remains a mystery.

But despite all his faults, I loved the little fellow. After all, we'd been together for 13 years, equivalent to 91 birthdays in doggy terms.

If nothing else, he'd shown me lots of affection, mirrored in those faithful bright eyes, and at least he'd proved to be a competent little guard dog, snarling out disapproval at any strangers rapping on the knocker or found acting suspiciously by the back garden fence.

Snuggled

Our bond came to an abrupt end when a bout of coughing prompted me to take Toby for a check-up at Springbank veterinary surgery, Prescot, where X-rays revealed the worst possible scenario. Toby had cancer of the lungs. The only merciful course open was to have him painlessly put down.

I'm over it now, although I still imagine he's there, blithely romping through my flowerbeds or snuggled up between my slippered feet as we watch TV together. But sadness has been tempered somewhat by the thoughtfulness of the staff at Springbank who, totally unexpectedly, sent me a special, signed sympathy card (with doggy illustration) together with an appropriate poem of condolence, written from a pet's point of view.

For any dog-lover who may be facing the agonising decision to have a terminally ill tail-wagger put to sleep, I'll share just part of the verse with you:

IF it be I grow frail and weak, and pain should wake me from my sleep,

Then you must do what must be done; for this last battle can't be won,

You will be sad, I understand; but don't let grief stay your hand,

For this day, more than all the rest, your love and friendship stand the test,

We've had so many happy years, what is to come will hold no fears,

You'll not want me to suffer, so, when the time comes, please let me go...

H RATHER touching, isn't it? But it all makes perfect sense. As contrary as he could often be, I believe that old Toby himself would have agreed that I did the right thing in allowing his suffering to be mercifully cut short.