Her name was Shaggy, a suitable name for a large English sheepdog that lived in a small, one-bedroom apartment with my parents, my sister, my grandmother and me during my childhood.

I thought Shaggy was huge, at least she was in relation to me, and I recall snuggling up with her on the floor and her accepting all my attempts at affection, play or mischievousness. She just sat with her lovely eyes and licked her way into everyone’s heart.

Years later, a series of “Bingos”– all pups descended from an uncle’s dog – were provided to my family for most of my developmental years and long after my grandmother’s death. We also, at one point, had a cat that my sister brought in from the street. I never thought in those days about the critical importance of animals in family life or, in particular, in the life of elders.

In my third year of medical school in Dundee, Scotland, I moved, with my roommate, Steve, into a terrace apartment, a fourth-floor walk-up, owned by a grey-haired, wiry Scottish woman, Mrs. Jenny Dykes. It was clear from the moment that we were interviewed by Jenny, that Judy, her terrier, would be playing a role in our collective living arrangement.

Jenny, whose high-frequency and high-decibel voice often uttered the name “Judy” when she was coaxing her into the kitchen for breakfast or downstairs for her walk, was a focal point of much of the apartment’s activities. Jenny had many unique attributes, one of which was to be able to hold a cigarette between her lips, and talk, cook and bake while the ash grew to the length of the whole cigarette, apparently without it falling off. However, we were reluctant to partake of her baked goods when she offered them to us, even though her shortbread was quite tasty.

Over the two years that we lived with Jenny, we began, as quasi-family, to help out with Judy’s care – mainly with her late-night walk, as in the winter months it was dark and usually wet outside, and we both knew that Jenny – although devoted to Judy – was somewhat frail and shaky, which made walking up and down the four floors challenging.

One day as Steve and I entered the flat, we heard another dog’s yapping – and there she was, a smaller version of Judy, a puppy that Jenny decided was necessary to keep her and Judy company and to prepare for Judy’s eventual demise.

Steve and I moved out in our final year of school, but we continued to visit Jenny and the dogs from time to time. Our association with Jenny and her menagerie was quite positive. At times, we would meet Jenny walking the two dogs in the neighborhood.

One day on one of our visits to Jenny, Judy’s bark did not greet us – she had been put down the previous week. Jenny expressed great sadness to us as she picked up the new pup, and they nuzzled each other affectionately. Many years later, after Steve and I had graduated and left Dundee, we heard that Jenny died, and we remembered her and her dogs with great fondness.

Jenny, like many older people, needed her pets to fill the place in the human heart for love, affection and companionship that cannot always be filled by other people.

Pets are wonderful, and many older people benefit greatly from their companionship and the uncompromising affection that they provide. They many not be for everyone, but when the match works, it can be magical.