As the years went by, I began to get broody for another dog - one a little more robust that I could walk with. Candy walked brilliantly for the first three years, then developed arthritis, so she invariably had to be carried
after a few metres and even at 3 kilos this became a bit wearying. I knew my husband would say a great big 'NO' to another dog in the house, so I did it behind his back and collection of a new, male Yorkshire Terrier fell on a weekend when he was away with
his birdwatching group. That day the rain came down in deluges and the local town was flooded, but my brave friend, Jenny, drove us to the farm where I was to pick up the new arrival. That was quite an experience. The farmhouse was overrun by tiny Yorkies,
but my puppy came out of a large, dark barn, a scrawny black scrap of a thing. The farmer handed him to me and the pup immediately hooked a paw into my shirt and wouldn't let go. I was going to call him Jasper, but by the time we got home with him, he was
Toby is beautiful, mischievous, jealous, possessive and thinks he's Vicious Sid every time anybody comes to the door. My other half hated him at first sight and it's taken five years for them to become friends
[with reservations]. The two dogs maintain a love-hate relationship which has improved with time. I love my little rascal to bits and I'm still working on his attitude towards visitors - though he's fine once they're inside and sitting down.