Bobby, the little Jack Russell, never really ran anywhere. It was more of a leaping bounce, miniature bouts of delighted flying as he came belting up to greet you.
This joyful leap was particularly apparent when fetching a tennis ball or chasing the magpies that swooped over his head.
We tripped over him often, usually when he was hanging around the kitchen begging for food or when the house was full of people as he weaved in and out of legs in excitement.
With his short muscular legs, eager face and wagging tail, he was always up to mischief.
So, the morning he collapsed on the grass, we knew something was horribly wrong.
With shaking hands and dread in my heart, my daughter and I rushed him to the vet and was suddenly hearing things like “critical” “no reflexes” and “not responding”.
While she talked about possible diagnoses and treatment that could run into thousands of dollars, I knew Bobby was slipping away.
I cradled his drooping head in my hand and stroked his shoulder as she slid the needle into his leg, sobbing as I told him he was a good boy and that we loved him.
We found a nice spot for him overlooking the You Yangs where the sunset often glows red in a big sky.
Wrapped in his favourite blanket and with his tennis ball, Bobby looked peaceful as we said our final goodbyes.
The dead tiger snake we found on the driveway the following morning gave answers to our suspicions. The snake had been bitten and it had bitten back.
Bobby was only a little dog, but he left a huge hole in our hearts.
Emma Sutcliffe is a freelance writer on Facebook at ‘Little River Emma’.
