His name is Prince Clarry and I have been devoted to him since I rescued him from Melbourne carers last year.

Clarry earned his title from friends and neighbours when I first told them that my pure-bred whippet is "a prince of a dog".

His origins are unclear but he has a regal presence that is clearly of show dog quality.

I suspect that a cleft in his right ear, indicating that some puppy-hood trauma, made him an outcast from breeders who would not accept anything less than blue ribbons.

Our love affair, not unlike human contact, is physical and emotional.

Canines, too, love to be hugged, caressed, stroked (and pawed). Reward him with a gloved belly-rub and he positively swoons.

Clarry returns affection with a wagging tail full of joy ... and a smile.

Perhaps only dog owners know that a facial flexing and a perceptible pinning of the ears reveal their smile, and besides, you can see it in their eyes.

Clarry "talks" in his own way, leading me to where he wants to be, or nudging me with his snout for the delight of a knuckle nuzzled softly into an ear. He is never angry and never argues.

It's true that dogs carry enough germs to make mums and dads squirm. But human exposure to a diverse range of bacteria triggers the immune system into positive action. I've caught colds and flu from family, friends and other people's kids, but have never had a sick day through contact with their dogs or mine.

I have no family now. Clarry is the one life dependent on my life so I give him a life befitting a royal. He enjoys the run of the house, plenty of walks and playing with his beloved Bessie, a toy cow and a comfort when he is left alone to fret our brief separations.

I've seen all I want to see of a changing world and have no craving for travel when I have the love of a dog that fulfills most of my needs.

I'll be in my eighties when Clarry is in his teens and I've determined that he must be my very last "man's best friend". I fear his grief if fate leaves him behind.