Torrie, my four-legged companion for 12 years, passed away on 8 February. (Obviously, it’s taken me a while to muster up the courage to share this news online.)
Torrie, who was unceremoniously introduced to our household by yours truly, was tough and chewed through bone like it was cheese. She ran like a greyhound and scaled backyard fences and jumped off rooftops like a thief on the run. Over the years, Torrie forced many unsuspecting people in Balgownie to be her buddy either because she was bored at home alone and wanted company or because no one could get home to her before a storm had hit. Torrie feared thunder like I fear World War Three.
She was alert and observant and she spent hours on the front balcony watching the world go by. She’d bark at anyone and their dog who dared walk past our house or up the driveway, though as soon as someone walked through the front door they were a friend, not a threat. She loved humans but hated other animals.
From day one, Torrie was a handful. She demanded equality and love from everyone, and she got it. She had standards, unashamedly. She was absurdly spoilt, but spoiling her made me happy.
She was a good friend. She was fun and cuddly and made for a good pillow or footrest. She played rough and liked exploring and getting dirty. She could communicate well and was teachable: she knew right from wrong; she could express excitement, empathy and guilt.
For 12 years, Torrie was a companion, a subject of conversation, a source of humour and entertainment, and my partner in crime. She made a huge difference in my life, she made me happy. And I’ll always remember her and be grateful for that.