A small bundle of fur, speckled and splodged with shades of brown and black, carelessly flicked as though at a blank canvas, hurtled towards us and into the boot of our car. Sitting still, though barely, the pure excitement and eagerness were visible on her face. This was 4-year-old Tilly, a small Jack Russel in need of a new home, and whose previous owner knew we were the ones for her. Ten-year-old me and my mum had gone to collect her 10 months after our elderly rescue dog, MoMo, passed away. Tilly did not hesitate in getting into the car, and we collected her favourite green “indestructible” ball before driving the short journey along the country lanes to our home.

The initial impression of eagerness to sit in the car's boot was misleading, suggesting Tilly was disciplined and well-behaved. We had barely pulled out when Tilly jumped over the back seats and into the front seats. The rest of the journey was spent with her scampering from my lap to my mum's, looking out the window and cleaning our faces. Once on my lap, I could properly look at Tilly, and what had first appeared to be pure white fur was, on closer inspection, murky, with a brown, mud-coloured tinge. She was in desperate need of a bath; we were later to find out this was due to her tendency to roll in mud and all other manner of horrible things!