Goodbye, Buxton.

By the time most of you read this, it will be all over. At the age of 13 years and 7 weeks, Buxton’s cancerous jaw has stopped him eating anything but the gravy on his food, stopped him drinking altogether, caused him to lose over a quarter of his bodyweight in just over a month, and he has ceased any useful self-cleaning. That last straw means the now-permanent trail of dribble hanging from mouth to floor, which is increasingly blood-coloured, is matting up his chest and front legs, and he is just miserable. Not even today’s glorious sun, cavorting birds, or the DsD family playing in the garden could persuade him to do anything other than curl up in a shady corner. I tried to groom him and he didn’t want to know …

… so when I get back in front of the PC on Monday lunchtime, tell me I did the right thing, because it bloody well doesn’t feel like it at the moment.


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