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When my dog Trixie died in 197-, it was one of the most horrific experiences of my life, a nightmare that still haunts me from time to time even now and comes back to me as vividly as if it happened yesterday and not 35 years ago.

She was an 8 year old black and white mongrel bitch. She was feisty and barked a lot at all and sundry, but I was still fond of her even though she was fonder of my mother than she was of me. She'd given birth to two litters of puppies.

She had one or two close brushes with death in her time. Once, she ran out into the road and got hit by a car but came out of it none the worse for it, miraculously enough. The bumper of the car just caught her rear leg, knocked her over. She rolled over a couple of times and then got up and ran across the road back to me.

My fondest memories of her was when I took her out for walks over the Castle grounds in Bute Park in Cardiff, where there was acres of open grassland. She hated the leash and always strained at it. And would whimper in anticipation of being let off it. As soon as I released her, off she went. She couldn't get enough of all the space and wanted to run everywhere; she went around in circles, ran towards me and then swerve away at the last second to avoid hitting me. Around and around she'd go until she'd run herself to a standstill, panting and exhausted.

I used to tease her a lot and she got her own back one day and bit me on the nose. I still have a small scar from that.

It was just after Christmas 1972 and my Dad went out to take Trixie for a walk and stop off at his local at the same time. My dad was fond of his drink and it being Christmas and all, he'd had one over the eight as he often did - even when it wasn't Christmas.

Trixie was on heat at the time and every time he took her out for a walk, other dogs would come and pester and sniff around as dogs do. Being a sometimes violent man, particularly when he was drunk, my Dad decided it would be a good idea to take an iron bar with him to fend off the other dogs.

When they got back, I noticed that Trixie, instead of going straight to my mother for attention as she invariably did, hid behind the armchair in the living room. I thought it was bit strange, so I went over to see if anything was up. She was cowering and subdued and didn't look her normal self. I stretched out my hand and stroked her on the head. It was wet and when I looked at my hand, I saw that it was covered in blood. Then I saw that there was an awful deep wound on Trixie's

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