Lambing season continues on our Cumbrian farm, but this week brought a somber moment. My border collie, Moss, died peacefully in her sleep at 14 years old. She had been my constant companion since 2012, when I collected her from a farm in Lancashire during a snowstorm.
Moss loved nothing more than lying in the sun while I worked on dry stone walls, and she excelled at agricultural shows, winning many rosettes for best shepherd dog at local meets. Her daughter, Foxy, is among my four remaining dogs, but each loss is deeply felt.
I buried Moss in the dogs' graveyard by the River Lune, digging the grave while listening to The Archers on my phone—a familiar comfort for both of us. She died with her ears pricked up, alert to the end, as if waiting for another day on the farm.
