When I was at school, the headmaster, as we called them back then, lectured us each week about the necessity of being of “good character”. It wasn’t so important, he said, to be wealthy, or first in the exams, or even popular. Being good-looking was particularly unimportant. Better to focus on this thing he called “character”.

It’s taken me many decades to work out what he meant, but I may have finally done it.

We lost our darling dog a few weeks ago. Clancy died in the middle of the night, lying beside my bed. I was stroking him as his breathing became shallow. I heard his last breath. It was a gentle death. Our kindly vet, who loved Clancy so much, assured us there was nothing that could have been done. She said Clancy would not have been in pain.

I want to write, though, not about Clancy’s death, but about his last year of life. About his character.

It was a year dominated by ailments. A neurological problem made it hard for him to take more than a few steps – his brain, the vet explained, couldn’t quite tell his back legs what to do. There was epilepsy, too. And there was a disease called Cushing’s, which involved a suite of symptoms and lots of daily pills.

All this resulted in many indignities for this sweet-natured dog. There was the indignity of being carried, at least some of the way, whenever he needed to move around the house or to go outside. There was the wagon – a sort of dog pram – into which he’d be inserted for the journey to the park. Then, at the park, there were the moments when he’d stand, alert with excitement, wanting to chase a dog that was chasing a ball. This was always his favourite activity, for all those years since he’d been a puppy. He’d come to understand that was now impossible. He would stand, and quiver, rooted to the spot, caught between aspiration and reality.

He’d just turned 10 years old. Young for a kelpie. But things were getting tougher, week by week. Sometimes tougher day by day.

You may laugh when I say that Clancy never complained about any of this. “Dogs can’t speak”, is a point you could make. That’s true, but only up to a point. Clancy didn’t need words to make his eloquent response. Every day, he made the most of life’s shrinking offer.

Clancy was always loving and protective of our grandchildren. His ailments didn’t limit his urge to defend them. A week or two before his death, our two-year-old grandson was having his midday nap, sprawled in our bed. And Clancy was still dragging himself up the hallway, his useless back legs trailing behind, his front legs doing the work, until he reached the position he needed to achieve. He slumped, tuckered out, lying between the bed that contained the treasured child and the door, a portal to the dangerous outside world.

I have a photo of them both – taken recently – the child sleeping, Clancy “protecting”. It makes me cry and laugh at the same time. With all those ailments, what was he going to do to rescue the kid from danger? Jump up and bite the intruder? Run to summon help? He couldn’t easily stand without my assistance. But, somewhere within, right to the day of his death, there was still that courageous Kelpie, determined to protect his tiny, vulnerable friend.

Paul McKeown, my old headmaster, would have had a word for it. Clancy had “character”.

It’s hard now he’s gone. Every humdrum event brings a memory of him. The tree under which he liked to snooze. The grass he destroyed, right outside the back door, is now growing fine. The meat section in the supermarket where you could buy bags of bones.

We have a favourite place to stop for coffee and a sandwich when we are on our way back into town after a weekend away. Clancy was always stretched out on the back seat of the car. We would grab our toasted sandwiches, eat them greedily, before setting off for home. Well, not too greedily because we’d both save a big chunk of our sandwich for Clancy.

He was always patient, waiting for his turn. Which he knew would always come. He enjoyed snaffling them so much, so careful not to bite our fingers.

We stopped off at our usual café this week. We walked back to the car with our toasted sandwiches. Then we just sat there, the two of us, so sad in the front of the car. What’s the point of a sandwich, or a weekend away, or just about anything, when Clancy is not there to share it?

But – here’s the point – Clancy never behaved like that. He was given a rough serve, right at the end, and he refused to let it stop him from his purpose. He served us. He protected those grandchildren. He enjoyed whatever life was able to offer, however slender.

Clancy had character. I’m grateful he’s helped me finally understand what it means.