When we got married and went to live in the wilds of Greeba, we were never without a dog.

I liked dogs and they were always quick to return the compliment.

Over the years we have shared our home with many of them, because sadly they don’t last forever.

But, apart from a brace of Dachshunds and a Jack Russell that grew to be the size of a hyena, I always had a whippet or a lurcher.

A greyhound, or a greyhound cross had always been my father’s choice of man’s best friend, so I suppose that it was a reasonable thing for me to follow on the family tradition of keeping a rabbit catcher.

I have to admit that I’ve loved them one and all, but the stand-out favourite of all times has to be the very last one.

She was a collie cross and she lived until she was 18.

She had been bred in Foxdale by Billy Collister, a well known breeder of sporting dogs who was also a long-time family friend of ours from Pully.

My current dog had unfortunately come to the end of her days and Brown Eyes had called on Billy to see if he had a suitable replacement.

She was in luck. Billy’s favourite bitch had recently had a litter of eleven pups.

Not only was this a rare achievement by any dog’s standards, all of the pups had survived and would be ready to leave their mother in a couple of weeks.

Off we went to Foxdale.

The first thing that we saw was a wise-looking dog keeping watch from her lookout post in the front seat of a van.

The second thing that we saw was an avalanche of pups. We chose each other.

It was love at first sight. There was never any doubt, and we enjoyed each others company for 18 years. Her name was Gyp.

Gyp was a once in a lifetime dog.

She knew her place in the family structure. At mealtimes, she would quietly retire to her corner of the room while we ate.

If a caller knocked on the door, she would make it clear to the visitor that she was in charge of security and, if I left the room to go outside, she would be with me, just in case.

She hated cats.

Hate is a word that I rarely use, it always sounds so final, but I think I know what Gyp meant.

Now I’ve always enjoyed gardening, which is just as well as we had a half-acre plot at Greeba.

But gardening in the country is always a challenge. If there was a the smallest of holes in the defences, there would be a rabbit lurking round the corner just waiting to get in.

The biggest nuisance came from the smallest rabbits.

They would squeeze through the tiniest gap to get in, and then hide up inside the fence and eat their fill.

When we moved to Onchan I thought that things would change.

I was right. They did.

We lost the rabbits but we found the cats and cats are in a class of their own.

Rabbits just live to eat and breed.

Dogs live to please their owner. But cats live to please themselves.

They fight each other, they kill small animals and garden birds just for the sake of it and they use the carefully planted and finely raked soil in raised garden beds as their toilet.

Raised beds that have been carefully raked and planted by poor old men with Parkinson’s Disease.

Oh yes. I forgot to mention that they smell.

Cats will pretend to like you and at the same time they will lead duplicate lives in several other houses.

They will use your furniture as scratching posts and your curtains as swings.

I think that good old Gyp had the right idea all those years ago.

If I ask her nicely, maybe Brown Eyes will give me a run out to Foxdale.

A decade ago Pullyman - aka Michael Cowin - was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease, a condition that affects people in different ways. Michael discovered writing and Island Life is featuring some of his musings. Sometimes topical, sometimes nostalgic, read about life as seen through the eyes of Pullyman