It was a slow-starting Sunday morning – just how you like them.

Rays of winter sunshine reached into the house to be wrung of every morsel of warmth by our pyjama-clad kids who sat cross legged in their glow, playing magnetic tic tac toe on the timber floor.

Mushrooms, garlic and butter sizzled in a small pan on the stove filling the house with an aroma as deliciously tempting as the unplanned, lazy hours which lay ahead.

Drifting dreamily on the kitchen vapours, the six-year-old rose from her place in the sun to enquire if breakfast was nearly ready, which it very nearly was, once the toast was done.

Never mind that this would actually be her second breakfast, with the original morning meal of porridge long polished off. The kid can certainly eat.

With an ear trained to the toaster for the tell-tale sound of the cosy catapult mildly unleashing its multi-grained payload, she went outside to say hello to the dog.

Like other beings that brisk winter’s morning, Vossy had settled where it was warmest.

She huddled in the golden shard which had poked its way through the pillars of the back deck to illuminate a comfortable spot on the bark chips at the base of the kids’ play fort.

We were soon to learn that she was not as content as she looked.

“Hello girl – watcha doin?” Clementine asked her best-mate border collie, who had entered the world some five years before she did, resulting in the paradoxical roles of tribal elder and hounded play thing.

Before she could get an answer, the toast popped and the girl’s mind was back on food.

She had managed one observation during the brief morning greeting however, which she shared innocently with the rest of us as she took her place at the kitchen bench.

“Vossy’s got a puffy snout today," she mentioned matter-of-factly, reaching for her knife and fork.

Despite an almost overwhelming desire to partake in the culinary offerings before me, it was obvious that breakfast would have to wait as the puffy snout situation was investigated.

Clem wasn’t kidding.

The dog looked like a cartoon version of itself – like a cheeky puppy that came off second best trying to raid a beehive.

Closer examination revealed a small amount of blood had been dripping from her mouth onto her paw.

Unperturbed and seemingly oblivious to any pain she was suffering, she wagged her tail and gave me that same inquisitive and excited look she has given the 12 million times we have come head to head over the past decade which says: “Please tell me you’ve got a tennis ball!!”

There would be no fetching anything fun on this occasion – just the car keys to take her to the vet.

When she sheepishly let me open her jaws to check what was going on I saw what I knew I couldn’t fix on the spot, considering it’s a difficult enough assignment for me to hang a picture in the house let alone remove a large fragment of bone that had become wedged in the roof of the family dog’s mouth.

So it was a mildly panicked run for professional help which ensued and, being a weekend, this meant being redirected from our regular vets to an after-hours business down the hill.

They rushed her straight in and in a calming, professional manner assessed the situation completely, informed me that everything was going to be okay and then produced a menacing pair of shiny multi-grips the size of barbecue tongs.

Using all of his strength, the vet released the embedded object with one deft jolt, as another vet and myself held the patient firmly.

The only whimper to be heard came from me, perhaps partly on seeing the size of the bone which had been removed and partly – now that the story had a happy ending – on anticipation of what the bill might look like for such high-level emergency care on a Sunday.

Surprisingly, it was nowhere near as bad as I thought, nothing like plumbers’ rates for example, and well worth it of course given the priceless contribution she had made to our lives over the years.

No matter what it cost, there was always going to be room in the budget for new tennis balls, which I would get for her later that morning ... after the mushrooms, if there were any left.