German Shepherd head on the back of the neck

The dog came down off the ridge this morning with a ewe's lamb across her shoulders like a stole, and I thought you'd want to know she's still the best thing on this farm, Dad's opinions notwithstanding. Brisk is nine now. Her muzzle has gone grey at the edges, but her ears still snap up at the slightest sound, two black triangles pointing at the wood line where the path bends into the larches.

You'll remember the winter the fox got into the hen house and Dad swore it was a ghost. Brisk sat outside the door for three nights without once lying down. On the fourth morning she carried the fox's brush to the back step and dropped it at my feet, tongue lolling, looking pleased with herself in the way only she can manage. I have never seen anything so proud.

Mrs Pryce from the cottage at the edge of the trees asked after you on Thursday. She said the forest has been quiet since the timber lorries stopped, and that the deer have crept back down to the water meadow. I told her Brisk would sort out any deer that tried to get comfortable. Mrs Pryce laughed, but I wasn't joking.

So come at Easter if you can. Bring your boots, not the good ones. The lambing is nearly finished and the evenings are drawing out, which means I'll need a second pair of eyes at the gate. Brisk will be waiting on the wall, ears up, watching the path for you.

Love, Nan