As a child, I was always a little afraid of dogs, with the exception of Kim, a large Boxer whom my uncle and aunt had adopted and loved. She was gentle to the point of allowing my cousin to open her mouth wide and stick his head in, complete with curly blonde hair. Kim patiently stood, drooling madly, waiting for the little boy to give up. To this day, this cousin does not give up on anything daft. He is now a grandpa, and though our emails are regular, he is possibly tired of reminding me that Glasgow beckons, where the accommodation (his house) is on offer. Kim comforted me on another occasion, but my aunt, concerned that I had hurt myself, pushed her away.  She looked miffed as dogs do. I remembered Kim fondly for years.

After emigrating, it took us a while to convince Dad that we wanted a dog. In my head, I imagined Kim, though she was no longer on the scene. So did Mum. Eventually, the lovely lady who became the favourite Aunty/ Aussie Grandma figure finally spoke to him.

“Bob, your son wants a dog; so determined is he that he delivers newspapers to pay for it. Your wife wants a dog, and so does your daughter. I would like them to have a dog for protection’s sake. How about it?”

Poor old Dad, he had no choice but to give in.

Mum did all the research, and the day came when we went to see a Boxer breeder and her husband. One of their 'family’ had several pups. My brother chose (with Mum’s help) the most handsome of the males. It was not long before Jasper was part of the family.

At that time, I was eighteen, unemployed and likely to be unemployable for another few months. One morning I was so depressed I sat in the PJs and dressing gown eating breakfast and feeling sorry for myself. Fortunately, at that age I rarely drank alcohol, in any case it would spoil the taste of the corn flakes!

Suddenly, seven-week-old Jasper sat at the edge of my dressing gown. My brother tried to move him away to no avail. Jasper came back several times and sat in the same place. Eventually, his new owner lifted him up and placed him on my lap.

“I give up. Jasper wants to comfort you. Just let him.”

How warm those slobbery kisses were as he licked away my tears. How comforting this pup became. What mateship developed. I eventually nicknamed him “Wee Jizzies” and there was only one time I was really cross with him.

Stupidly I left a recent purchase in not so safe place Jasper found it.

My brother once again investigated. Holding up the purchase, he said:

“Oh my gosh. Someone is going to be very angry with her wee Jizzies.”

Yes, it was sheet music; fortunately, the paw print was nowhere near the melody line. I guess any accompanist worth his or her salt could override the problem.

Now that several dogs have been in my life, with many comfort moments, that day when Jasper did what dogs do best will be a memory I cherish.