One Christmas Eve 12 years ago at 11 o’clock in the evening (just before Santa came to my three kids who were all under six) there was a knock at the door.

And there stood a 6ft Rastafarian man with dreadlocks. This was unusual, even for me. He was holding his trousers up with one hand because he had taken his belt off.

And there at the end of his belt, his makeshift lead, was our puppy Toby. A Blenheim Cavalier Kings Charles spaniel, looking up at us as if he had done nothing wrong.

We wished this unlikely angel of a man “Merry Christmas”, thanked him profusely, and gave a gift to wish him on his way.

We didn’t dare to think about what would have happened on Christmas morning if the kids woke up and was he was gone. Santa, I guess, comes in many forms.

This was one of the many stories we told about Toby as we took him to the vets for a final time.

Now 13 years of age, he had run out of steam. No pain but just a somnolent life lying on his bed at home.

We told the story of him stealing the babysitter’s handbag and depositing it in the garden. She called her husband to come over because she thought a thief had entered the house. Naughty Toby.

We told of the journey back from holiday when he had eaten something that he shouldn’t and our eyes watered with the smell. Windows open all the way back. Farty Toby.

We told of his kindness; the confidante to the kids who would tell him everything; he would listen and look at them with his beautiful eyes and offer unconditional love. Kind Toby.

And we told of how he was part of our family from day one; inveigling a place in our hearts. Lovely Toby Southall.

And at the vets he passed away serenely and peacefully after a long life in which he gave so much joy. We miss him, of course, but he has left an indelible imprint on our family life. So thank you Toby for all you brought to us.