Laura used to live with Mr Fox, and his other lady greyhound Margot, in London. It was just the three of them, when he was in and out of self-employment and so forth. I don’t know the specifics, as this was well before I met him.

However, when he was in full time employment, they could no longer fairly live with him, so they moved up to lovely Suffolk to live with Mr Fox’s parents. Margot sadly passed away several years ago, following an accident (I’m not interested in divulging details here), leaving Laura the lady of the manor in her Suffolk home.

Recently, Laura developed a growth on the bone of one of her front shoulders, which caused a very painful limp. After several exams and biopsies at the vet, Mr Fox and his parents were told that nothing could be done to lessen the growth, save amputate the leg. As Laura already had arthritis in her back legs, this wasn’t an option: losing a leg would leave her almost entirely crippled. The vet instead prescribed strong painkillers, and advised a check on her progress in May.

Nothing got better. Laura couldn’t limp more than ten yards before getting tired. She was on the highest dosage of pain killers, and often yelped when she moved. And yet she was never “down” – she was always perky, happy to see you. She had spent a lot of time lazing on the sofa before, it’s just now she didn’t really have the OPTION to do anything else

Mr Fox’s parents came to the difficult decision of having her put down this afternoon, 13/04/10. Although she was still eating properly and so forth, she simply did not have the quality of life she deserved. All we can really do to console ourselves is know that she had a wonderful, enjoyable and loving home. She could never want for anything (although being the madam she was, she often did want for more!)

She enjoyed a multitude of sausages in her time. She chased squirrels in Battersea park. She harassed local wildlife (and cats). She took no notice if you wanted to sit on HER sofa.

Laura, you were never mine, but thank you for gracing me with your company. You will be painfully missed.


One thought on “Obituaries

  1. Pingback: Do not go gentle into that good night… « Unravelled

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