We've known for several months that Dylan was seriously ill with untreatable cancer, and felt that he was living on borrowed time since the diagnosis. Late last week things took an awful turn for the worse and the vet could do nothing to save him.
He came to us nine years ago from the council dog wardens after a period of living rough on the streets; so thin that his ribs almost showed through his fur despite a week of feeding up by the dog shelter.
Obviously we had no idea how he'd found himself living wild. He was never the sort of dog to run away when let off the lead, and had been trained to sit, roll over, and shake paws, so presumably cared for properly. After a chaotic week or so, he settled in here, got over his fear of my husband (probably linked to his previous experiences with men), put on weight and grew a long shaggy collie-style coat, but we never solved the riddle of what breeds may have formed part of his DNA.
Here he is up to some of his favourite things, out on adventures, and chilling out at home.
He was a excellent boy, fond of walks, cuddles on the sofa and comfy naps, but not of getting wet.