On occasions, dog owners tend to ascribe human emotions to our canine companions. I know we are guilty of that, if guilt is relevant, and I have often found myself looking at our three dogs and wondering just exactly what are they thinking?

When they dream and start to half-bark or whine in their sleep, what is the nature of their dreams?

I know that having had dogs before, we came home from work, stroked them and acknowledged them when they welcomed us and I would take them out down the woods and across the fields for a walk. I did wonder how they filled their day. They do not have books to read, correspondence to catch up on, emails to write or television to watch.

In 2001 we bought a Canaan puppy that my wife Ellie decided to name Woody. Ellie felt the grandchildren would more easily identify with a character from Toy Story. He was of a slightly nervous disposition, which is really a euphemism for his being distinctly wary of anything or anyone out of his comfort zone. It was almost as if he was a throw-back to his forefathers: the wild desert dogs that the Israeli’s captured, reared and trained back in the 1930s to find mines. Canaans are familiar with the heat whereas German Shepherds and Retrievers were found unsuitable for the task.

They became a domesticated breed, recognised by the Kennel Club in the 1970s and won Best of Show not long afterwards. Being a recent breed, there has been little time for the breeders to try and alter their appearance by genetic engineering, making the tail curlier or the hips narrower. Too many breeds have been similarly ruined or rendered vulnerable to conditions their ancestors never had.

I have always believed in choosing the puppy that comes to you first or second and, while modern thinking suggests these are the potential leaders, guard dogs or protectors, I believe the old adage, founded on years of choosing dogs, is correct. Ellie, however, felt the positive puppy might be a handful and so we opted for the more hesitant one. It transpired we had chosen a puppy that was perpetually anxious. He would howl if you put him in a car and it took him some 18 months to relax in one.

Woody would see someone approach and head off at a tangent, preferring to keep his distance and watch the stranger before finally relaxing. He came across with us to France in 2005 and was known to the French locals as Le Loup Blanc (the White Wolf) whereas in fact Woody did not constitute a threat to anyone else but himself. He walked off the lead every night, moving up the street where there are just gardens on one side, crossing to the other when he came across houses. He was forever wary, looking at windows and doors as if a monster was likely to spring out at any moment. Once clear of the houses, as we headed into the country, his tail would come up and he would relax.

He liked women best, which suggests he was no bad judge, but very occasionally, after seeing a friend of ours several times, would come over and, after some wary sniffing, would relax in his company. Ellie once took him to a dog show when the vet invited him, because Canaans are rare and there were only 100 in the UK in 2003. But Woody refused to get out of the car, despite Ellie’s coaxing.

In France, our daily walks took us down a dead-end lane to a farm, and then onwards to a lake. Two children would be playing outside and rush to make a fuss of our other dogs, but Woody would cut across the field, avoiding contact with seven-year-old children, and then wait for us further down the trail. Yet the irony is he loved children and was adored by all our grandchildren, who often took their afternoon naps, lying with their heads on Woody’s side.

When Ellie decided she wanted a lap-dog, for her 60th birthday, we bought Dixie, our King Charles Cavalier, who broke her leg as a puppy and lost it in preference to losing her life when gangrene set in.

It was a mistake by the vet, I think. That was traumatic but she recovered well and adjusted: a happy dog 24/7, who loves the world and every human and dog she sees. I enjoyed her spirit and her personality, which finally won me over as I had some reservations about small dogs.

As it happened, the lap-dog concept did not work out as intended. For some reason, Dixie adopted me and follows me religiously. If I type in the office she sleeps on the rug by the chair. If I go out into the garden, she investigates the area in which I am working.

Despite her many attempts to get Woody to notice her, Dixie was ignored. After three years, Ellie decided to have a second try for a lap-dog and bought another Cavalier, Fudge, a little boy. It worked, for Fudge loves Ellie and Dixie.

Because of Woody’s nature we knew it would be cruel to bring him back to England when we visit or take him on holiday with us, but we found a kennel where he likes the woman who ran it. When we went to collect him, Dixie would rush up to him, but Woody would continue to ignore her. Nothing would persuade him to take any notice of her.

(Continued next week).