Monday
Grief is the Thing with Fur. Herbert Hound died in our arms at home at 4.11pm on Sunday, 6 April, bathed in love and sunshine. We had hoped he would live longer. Maybe to the end of the summer. But his prostate cancer had spread to his bladder and urethra and he faded very fast. By his final weekend, he could barely pee or poo and would only nibble on a slice of ham. All he really wanted to do was lie down and sleep next to where we were sitting. We took him for one last walk – more of a slow dawdle, as his movement was limited – to his favourite part of the woods on Tooting Bec Common, where he got to sniff the smells for one last time. For the rest of the time, we just held and stroked him and told him how much he was loved. The vet came at 4pm to administer the injections and we sat with him for an hour before his body was collected by the cremation team.
