WE'VE just buried Ben. He was getting old and arthritis had set in quite badly from a lifetime of being out in all weathers with the sheep.

He was a much-respected loyal friend to all the family, but was never too keen on strangers. His one weakness was his long-standing affair with a neighbour; they'd had children, all a credit to them.

He's now at rest across the lawn from the office window. His wife, daughter and the whippet watched as the grave was dug, climbed in and gave him a final farewell before our grandson buried him and built a stone surround.

Ben was, of course, a sheepdog. At 15, he was about the equivalent of three-score years and ten which, for a cur, is about typical for they do put a lot into their lives in very tough conditions. He'd been guard, companion and worker.

He must have escorted thousands of people through the yard on the footpath. He never bit, just made certain nobody stepped out of line. During his tenure he was always top dog over the other three.

Born at Braidley in Coverdale, he had an early education at the hands of Katy Cropper, but never impressed enough to graduate to top trialling or performing. He did our job well.

As the needle went in he looked up with total trust, but I had to wonder whether he thought he would return. I did know he was a lucky dog. He was totally compos mentis, with a bright coat and a wet nose, but his old eyes were dull, his appetite gone and he wanted out.

Animals have only instinct, no foresight, so they put their trust in you and you should never, ever abuse it. If only this could happen legally to our loved ones. With all the science, welfare and concern for human wellbeing we still allow people to suffer physically and mentally because of greed or guilt.

Over the years we have put down a lot of dogs and can remember every one. We aren't cat people but at lambing this year we'll miss Puss. After 17 years of constant companionship when we were around the buildings, she took herself off and I found her neatly curled up, dead, in the bales recently. She never missed you on your regular trips round the lambing shed and saw thousands of lambs born.

We've always shot horses on the farm, then they have gone to the kennels to feed the hounds that gave them so much pleasure in life. What now I wonder? Sheep that have died on the farm have usually been buried on the farm as well, but in future that will be illegal.

I can be buried beside the dogs, horses or cats, but the cattle and sheep have to go off to a licensed renderer. I'm sentimental. What a shame.

As country people, we are lucky to have this simple, natural attitude to death and disposal. I feel sorry for people who insist on putting human emotions between the ears of animals. For them the decision to put down an old and trusted companion must be much worse.

This carries through to breeding working animals. If they don't make it in ability or fitness, they are put down, or should be. Breeders of working terriers, sheepdogs or hounds are not concerned with Kennel Club pedigrees but with knowing that parentage is backed by skill. My whippet is a natural killer of bunnies and hares; smooth, fast, skilful and deadly.

Before Alun Michael destroys 400 years of breeding, go and look at your local pack of hounds. They have that same ability to to kill but, unlike the longdog working on sight, they have a sense of smell that allows them to work on quite an old trail. Let us not pretend that The Bill will stop there, for shooting dogs, working terriers and pets can hunt in groups, often doing an essential rural job.

How sad it is to think that breeding for a purpose may well die out and selection will become even more concentrated on the cosmetic whims of humans, who already have ruined so many breeds with dysplasia, retinal detachment and accentuated bad temperaments. Dog shows and breeders have a lot to answer for by overlooking functionality.

Out of all these thoughts comes an interesting possibility for farmers seeking to diversify. When, at lambing time, the ground has been too hard to dig, I have put dead lambs on the muck heap. I even put a ewe on as well. Place on top, cover generously with muck and, lo and behold, when spreading day comes - not a sign. I have explored this phenomenon with various friends. One even confessed to putting a pony on the midden. Same natural process and outcome. Why not people? Already there is an organic burial ground in the Dales so why not organic crematoria?

Some diversifying entrepreneurs have already installed burners which can take pets and horses on the farm, but these use expensive energy and generate unpleasant smells. The Organic Crematoria Franchise Chain is far preferable. The franchisee will need no capital investment, just some animals, some middens in attractive spots and he's in business. He will need only to subscribe to the national advertising campaign.

About every nine months, the heaps will be spread and relatives invited to a fertility celebration, arriving by private and cheap transport or other means. They will be loaded on to a telehandler to await the vicar or other officials and Bob's your uncle - or he was.

So, diversifying farmers go to it. You occupy the land and can do anything legal on it, but I bet there are hundreds of forms to fill in.

Old Ben set me off on this train of thought so, in respect, I would like to call this iniative Ben's Organic Burials, or BOB for short