I spotted you at once. You were four years old, and stuck in a rescue kennel looking for a new owner. You turned your head and gave me a cursory glance over your shoulder before turning back to the far more interesting bitch sitting in the pen next to you. But for me, it was love at first sight and I brought you home to my surprised family.

You were big, blond and beautiful with huge soulful black eyes that stared out of your large domed head. Life with you was a challenge. You were wild and, having been in kennels for a considerable time, had months of pent-up energy. Nothing could contain you. You dug under fences, shouldered through hedges and ran like the wind.

My life with you became a continuous cry of “Where’s the dog?” before yet again driving to collect you from strange people in strange places in the depth of the countryside. You even managed to get through an electric fence into the garden of two rottweilers.

You brought me “gifts” of muntjac deer and rabbits. It took me a year to get you to come inside our house. But I persevered with you, and you have become the most faithful, loyal dog I have ever had.

The best times of my day are when we have walked miles together over these beautiful Chiltern Hills, your nose to the ground alert to smells and sounds every inch of the way. We have sat together in our favourite spot watching the red kites wheeling overhead and noticing the minute changes of nature through each season.

You have supported me and been my constant companion through some difficult years. When I was recovering from cancer, too tired to take you out, you sat next to me with your huge head on my lap, rarely wanting to leave my side.

You were with me as I got stronger but was grieving over my brother’s death, when I would walk and walk to try to make sense of this world.

Those days are long past now as you lie by the fire, your huge head resting on your large paws, watching your favourite television programme, Countryfile, scanning the screen for some four-legged friends. Your computer skills are limited, but you enjoy “talking” to my daughter in Australia on Skype and, like me, get upset when she disappears from view as you stare mournfully at the blank screen.

Our walks have now dwindled to short strolls that take a long time, as we stop and admire the view more frequently, huffing and puffing up hills. You need to be lifted in and out of the car, and sometimes it’s hard for you to even get out of bed. I know your days are numbered, and that I will be heartbroken when I plant my Judas kiss on your head as the vet gives the final injection.

Goodbye, dearest Jake. Thank you for all the love and enjoyment you have given me.

Your “mum”