No matter how brightly the sun shines or how well things go, the knowledge that you are soon to die twists all inner perceptions to melancholy. But nothing was more surprisingly heart-wrenching than ensuring that my estate collie, Bitter, was adopted by friends in the same village. She went reluctantly, although relatively obediently as always. It is at such times that our inability to communicate with other species causes maximum distress. Bitter has no way of knowing that what I did was for her own happiness. So must the ancient gods have felt, unable to explain to worm-like mortals besieging Troy why their lives must be wrenched and shattered by what appears to be capricious fate. My gratitude to the family who have adopted Bitter (they already have two dogs, a Staff and a terrier) is very real. But seeing her lying in front of a fire in their farmhouse living room, unaware of my arrival, was a dagger in the heart.  Why ‘Bitter’? Well, there were three collies, once, on my estate, named after beers: Becks; Bass and— Bitter!