She had many names, The Small Dog, Lemming, due to her habit of hurling herself skywards off steps. Puppadog, Pup. Towards the end she didn’t answer to any of them as she’d become deaf. It didn’t bother her, she no longer heard the fireworks or the thunder. The tough little dog didn’t cope well with either.
 She chased rabbits, foxes, it didn’t matter that she never caught up with them, she enjoyed bouncing over our ridge and furrow fields full of the chase that ended with her chasing fresh air. She ran up trees then fell out, landing in the brook. That was how she had her first swimming lesson. She disappeared down drains and was then found hours later wandering casually along our lane, covered in dead stuff.
If she recognised you as a friend she would race towards you then run up your legs to hopefully be caught in your arms. She was very generous with her favours.
Most of our chickens were taller than she was. She shared a house with 40kg plus French Mastiffs, a German Shepherd and a Basset.
They all recognised that she was head of the pack. The only threat she ever faced from them was being knocked over by the over exuberant wag of a tail from a Mastiff. She fell over with dignity, as always.
She was buried in a small plot not far outside the kitchen window. Next to her we planted a young Silver Birch Tree, just coming into leaf. Shortly after we had buried her, sharing memories and saying our goodbyes with a small glass of something sparkling, we looked out of the kitchen window, past her young tree, and there was the most beautiful double rainbow.
She’s still around.