I love including dogs as a character's best friend... and there is no one better placed than a dog to bring mayhem into a story. (See Kiss Me in Fire Station Lane for a perfect example.) I write about dogs also because I love them! If all my dogs, deceased and present, came bounding up today to meet me, it would be a motley and beloved crew.

In memory’s eye I see my very first dog, a small red Staffordshire Bull Terrier cross. Jake trots to the top of the stairs when I arrive and gives me a long, ‘rowr-rowr’ report on his day, his wide mouth grinning, intelligent eyes fixed on mine. It is too hot to rush about so he stands, laughing, over his favourite rock and invites me to come up. Jake loves rocks. He plays with them, kicks them between his feet, gnaws on them, carries them home from walks (or makes me carry them). He is funny, expressive, and intolerant of other dogs. When I first saw him as a puppy, I thought he looked like a seal pup.

There is Jag now, coming from far down the paddock. She is in no hurry to join us but trots smoothly, effortlessly, sunlight shining on her black coat. There is the lithe grace of a panther in her lean, muscular frame, watchful caution in her golden eyes. Independent, aloof, a little damaged from her past, Jag is an accomplished escape artist – she can capably scale my brother’s six-foot chain-mesh fence with barbed wire on top. She is a true, free spirit.

Snowy will overtake her. A short, white Staffy, solid as a barrel and half Jag’s height, Snowy’s pink tongue lolls as she races up. She is looking for our little toddlers – come on, let’s play! I’ll roll over, you lie on my tummy! Like Jag, Snowy is a rescue dog. Her sweet, merry soul glowed in her brief time with us. She is the yin to Jag’s yang.

Now, here comes Tonka Joe, lolloping and gormless. He has the kindest, biggest heart you could meet in his clumsy, bitser body. With paws too big and legs utterly graceless, he gallops over at the sound of my voice, skidding at the last and falling over Jake, who snaps at him. They never met in life, and although Joe formed deep friendships with other dogs, I’ve no doubt little Jake would lack patience with him. When we moved overseas, Joe came with us. He was ecstatic to see us at the airport, and shocked to find his tropical lifestyle replaced by winter frosts; we went straight out and bought him a woolly jacket.

Old Josie won’t be impressed by any of this. A loyal, brindle Staffy with dark eyes and a greying muzzle, she wants her owner to herself. She will see off this crowd of riffraff. Josie is a Kiwi, born and bred, and came to us at age nine. She loves our children devotedly but does not like other dogs. While I’d put my money on Jake in a scuffle today, even with his rock-worn teeth, Josie will make him work for his victory.

Late to this tail-wagging, milling melee comes Lily, with her sway-backed, matronly trot and eyes soft with love. She had four litters before being rehomed to us and she loves absolutely everyone. (Pictured, helping me clean harness.) There is bare hope in her greying, Staffy face – will there be food? – and she leans in, licking endlessly, a lapdog with a heart of gold.

At last, here is brindled black Asher, leaping the last step onto the deck. A happy-go-lucky clown who adores Lily and his human pack, Asher lives life to the full. He is all stop or all go, this boy, and I see the flash of his white chest and his grinning mouth as he jumps up to greet me.

“Down, dog.” Let me fondle your ears and cup your jaw as you lean in for a hug. 

I love you, too.