A DOG is man's best friend, they say. Maria and I have just lost our best friend and it may take some time to get over it.

Lucky our black Labrador finally succumbed to advancing years and the ailments that go with old age. She was 16 and a big dog which, according to one set of tables I found, means she was the equivalent of 116 years old.

We had her for nine years. She was a rescue dog who, when we first got her, had boundless energy and could leap walls from a standing start and run for ever. Even two weeks ago, she would bark at Maria when she knew it was time for her morning walk in the fields at the end of the road.

Her pace by then had become languid and the outing was short and consisted mainly of having a good sniff. And then the change set in. She became listless, went off her food and didn't want to go walking. A sniff around the garden was enough.

About three or four years ago she was put on medication for arthritis and stiffening of her back legs. The medicine worked. Just over a year ago, she had a major bowel operation. At her age, her recovery was remarkable.

We thought she had had a stroke in September and Donaldson’s duty vet Kat came out in the middle of the night.

An injection, reassurance and an increase in the dosage of her medicine literally put Lucky back on her feet.

But last week we knew the end was near. She could no longer climb into her chair to look out of the window. Her back legs had gone and for long periods she couldn't move at all unless we helped.