YET another anniversary of the death of our wee rescue dog, Scud, fast approaches.

I had the privilege of putting her quietly to sleep, in front of the fire (her favourite place, next only to her food bowl).

She was steadied carefully by my daughter, who was broken hearted but held it together till her special girl shut her eyes, relaxed and slipped painlessly away.

My son sat in attendance, teeth gritted, stoic as ever, but even he had to get up and walk out when the tears began to well up.

It was possibly harder still for my wife, who was three days away from the end of a long, arduous course of chemotherapy and, of us all, Scud had been her constant, faithful companion, unaffected by the worry, concern and the emotion of it all.

Of course, Scud will remain in our memories for much more than that.

She was, and will always be, the dog that my children grew up with.

She shared the tears and the tantrums, the trials and the tribulations.

She skulks furtively in the background of almost every photograph.

Both started school with their new blazers christened with her shed hair. She chaperoned them when friends began to call and went to the door with them whenever anyone visited.

Although losing her was awful, we can all now look back and smile and relish the good times.

And that is the wonderful thing about dogs.

They love us unreservedly.

They don't care what we look like.

They don't worry a bit what we are wearing. Haircuts mean nothing. Nor does the occasional spot. They probably don't even care how we smell. And that is why we love them.

I remember fondly coming home at night. There was always the ridiculous barking, as if she didn't recognise the sound of my car. Then there was the mad scurry into her bed (she knew she had to do that to get your attention). And then, day after day after day, the same inexplicable raw joy at my appearance.

The humans, of course, were different. Depending upon how school had gone, or what news there was, you were either met with a deluge of bodies and sound, or the seemingly deserted house resembled the Marie Celeste.

But Scud was always the same. No matter my mood. No matter how tired, she was just really pleased to see you.

When I talk about her with my family, we all agree it is the single most missed thing: the lovely feeling that arriving home initiated a welcome with enthusiasm that never diminished in fourteen years.

I know that, for others, there will be different memories of a dear departed friend that will be savoured. It might be a heavy head on your lap, eyes beseeching, looking for that last bite of a biscuit.

It could be a warm lump of hairy dog at the bottom of your bed. Maybe it's a wagging tail and that look of expectation as you go to throw a ball.

Whatever they are, relish the memories.

They are what make life special.