Trixie died on Monday morning. I've mentioned Trixie many times in this column but never by name.

Trixie was The Mother's dog. She was also her closest and dearest friend.

Sentimentality? Not a bit of it. It was the plain truth. After my father died, my mother, like so many elderly people, turned to her pet for companionship.

I was around, sure, but only when I wasn't working in London or dashing off somewhere with my own friends.

Trixie, who had not an ounce of malice - or an ounce of pedigree! - in her sturdy little body, remained faithfully at my mother's side offering, as only animals can, unconditional love and acceptance.

My parents met her in 1995 at Brighton's RSPCA kennels. She was thought to be about eight years and had been discovered starving and neglected. Sadly, she was surrounded by other abandoned creatures, all needing new homes.

Some dogs barked furiously, others ran around and jumped up against the wire doors of their pens desperately seeking attention. Their message was clear: "Look here! Look at me! I'm the one you want! I'm the one you should take!"

Trixie did none of these things. She simply stood shivering at the front of her pen and looked up at my parents with dark, sad eyes before turning and walking slowly away as if to say: "No, I'm nothing special, I don't suppose you'll bother with me."

That evening she was ensconced on my parents' settee. She wasn't meant to be on the settee but well, under the circumstances, my parents felt she deserved a little pampering.

My mother remembers all these details of this first meeting with remarkable clarity.

She also remembers the time Trixie raided a bag of shopping and devoured a packet of jam tarts, cellophane wrapping and all.

And the time we left the fridge door ajar for a moment and found half a dozen slices of corned beef had gone missing.

What Trixie liked were people who brought her biscuits and bones or shared their dinner with her at the table.

What Trixie didn't like were other dogs, particularly small, yapping dogs.

You could see her roll her eyes in disgust.

As both she and Trixie were getting on, my mother worried about Trixie's continuing welfare if she should die before her pet.

"You will look after her? You'd never put her in kennels, would you?" she'd ask.

At the end of her life Trixie had all but lost the use of her legs. She could barely stand and if standing found it impossible to lie down. She would wander into corners and stand with her head bowed, staring at the floor, as if she really didn't know what to do or make of what had happened to her.

There won't, of course, be any funeral service for Trixie, and you won't see her mentioned in the obituaries, but be sure my mother is grieving for her nonetheless. Trixie was as much a part of her family as I am.

In a world where thousands were murdered and maimed by cruel acts of terrorism on September 11, there are those who may be irritated by the fact that she is grieving for a dog. "Just a dog", as some people would say.

Yet whatever the scale, large or small, bereavement is still bereavement, a loss a loss, and a little private grief - yes, even for a dog - has a right to be acknowledged and expressed.

Losing Trixie has caused my mother a lot of pain but, for all the sadness she's feeling now, I know for sure she will always be glad that Trixie was a part of her life.