He was only little, but he had enough personality for a dog three times the size, and he knew it. Twelve years of padding after me round the house, getting under my feet, and looking up at me like I was something special — which, as far as he was concerned, I was, and I’ll not pretend that didn’t mean the world. Every evening he’d be up on that sofa before the theme tune had even started, all curled up and waiting for his treat with that look on his face. He’d done nothing to deserve it, of course. He never did. But he got it anyway, because that’s just how it was with Snowy. I’m going to miss that funny little face more than I can say — twelve lovely years, and worth every last bit of dog hair on the cushions.