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We always had a dog of some sort which my father would take out with him when shooting. I can just remember Whitey which I think was part greyhound.
After Whitey died, I remember my father bringing home a small black puppy with a white front, in a bag on his back. Toby had arrived in the Sennitt household. Toby was a great friend to me. He would sometimes go with me to collect the milk on a Saturday morning. I used to lean with my arms on the handlebars of my bike with Toby spreadeagled across my arms and so give him a ride. I'm not sure if Toby enjoyed this or just put up with it.
Toby was with us for some sixteen years despite having three of his legs broken in different accidents. He was killed by a lorry when running home behind my father who was riding his bike home to Wicken from the farm. All of the dogs my father had after this were called Toby, but none could replace him as far as I was concerned.
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