The first dog I can remember as a toddler was called Bonzo (yes, well, I told you it was a long time ago and I think it was probably quite a fashionable name at the time). He was a mutt, no doubt about it; brown, white and orange, and I used to sleep on the stairs with him. Then came Jock, named after my father, who didn't live with us at the time. He had a rough coat, and I suppose was part terrier (no, not my dad, please concentrate).

Later, when I had my own dogs, there was Snooky, who was a collie with a terrier head, then Gub-Gub with the beautiful tail, named after Dr. Doolittle's pig because I liked the name. She was actually a Welsh Collie, fast and slim, and nothing like a pig.

Then there was a Labrador cross, also called Snooky. My wife was for calling her Lib-Lab but I vetoed that. Keep politics out of the kennel, I say. And finally there came Snooky's favourite daughter Bugle (loudest in the litter) and little scruffy Pebbles, who was really my wife's dog. The last two are still with us. So you can see that I know about dogs, or so I thought before we acquired Patch.

Patch is a Border Collie. He is not aggressive; in fact he is very lovable and quite gentle with our other two dogs, as long as they know who's the boss and as long as they do as they're telt, and fast, like. Ken? (Well, he is a Scot!). I have to admit that Patch is a puzzle. If he doesn't want to do a thing, he won't. It's as simple as that. He can't be tricked, flattered or scolded into doing something, because he's not that easily impressed.

But there are ways to manage him. If you want him to follow you; walk away. You know, like the Horse Whisperer. It's not because he doesn't relate; he really loves us and he is obedient in his own way. He will sit, go down, give either paw and 'talk'. He just doesn't see the point of doing something he doesn't want to, all right?

He has plenty of the legendary energy and intelligence of the finest sheepdog in the world. I usually take a tennis racquet and ball on our walks in the woods to try, in my optimistic way, to tire him out. We live in a hilly, and fairly wild part of the Highlands, and I only have to say to him, "Patch, that way", or even just point, and he'll be there, waiting for the ball, whether it's up the brae or across a burn.

And yet, for all his intelligence and boldness, he is sensitive and easily frightened. At the first hint of a raised or angry voice (it wouldn't be mine, you understand), he goes to pieces and hides...

Yes, our boy is difficult at times, but always fascinating, and I don't have to tell you that we love him to bits.

He was a gash and faithful tyke
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke;
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face
Aye gat hi