Wasn't I beautiful!

And I still am. That's me at sixteen weeks. Such a little bundle of gorgeousness.

Six years on still the most pearlescent fur especially after I've been to my groomer. Black truffle nose, liquid chocolate eyes, petit perfectly triangulated ears and energetic tail. I have it all.

I've put on a few kilos, too many for a while but then she put me on a diet and I lost a few kilos and now I am perfect weight.

In fact, I am pretty perfect all round.

I am a robust build. I've developed strong chest muscles and square jaw, a sign of good breeding in Westies.

Legs might be considered a bit short but they are Westie legs, unlike some Westies, not mentioning any names, Bertie half-brother, who has Schnauzer legs.

I can run and tumble with the best of them including Bertie.

When we go to the park, the best bit is walking past the coffee shop in the wall. Everyone sits on the lawn to drink their coffee. There are little humans who point at me and want to touch me, and big humans who look longingly at me and wish I was theirs, and doglets in all shapes and sizes and colours who want to sniff me.

Islay is my favourite. She too old to be a love interest. But she is a cool senior Westie and her human mum is the real deal because she was born in Scotland. That's different to being born in Australia from Scottish heritage, like me, but it's still in my doglet genes. I try to bark with a Scottish accent.

When I was a puppy, I behaved like a puppy. I wee-ed in the house, I chewed the corner of the sofa, and the rug and the magazines. I did lots of zoomies then dropped into a deep sleep. I had a squeaky bark. I was a counter-tenor. One of my human mum friends told me to grow some balls because I squeaked. Little did she know that I did grow balls and my bark was deeper and stronger – not a basso profundo, more a baritone bass bark. Then they got chopped off. But my bark didn't go back to being squeaky.