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December 2010
Anyone who knows me
knows that the Twins pick on me. They shout at me when I ask them
(nicely) to get out of their beds to let me take over. When we run
round the Patch, they hurl abuse because I’m a poor crippled chap, even
though I can run just as fast as them, and often even faster. They
take my breakfast and they sleep on John and Daff’s bed when I have to
sleep on the landing.
But we Fen Bank dogs
have to stick together. Sally and Mr Paddidog came from Lincolnshire
Greyhound Trust and don’t have a lot to do with us. Bluebell, Discit
and I, on the other hand, know that we’ve got Fen Bank in common, and
for that reason, even though we get up each other’s noses from time to
time - well, they get up mine, anyway – we need each other in times of
crisis.
This is why I’m asking
all of you who know the dreaded Bluebell – that screaming, self-centred
little madam with those lovely, long, curly eyelashes and blue coat to
die for, who always wants her own way, steals all our food and gets to
lick every plate she can get her tongue on - to spare a thought for her
in her hour of need.
You’ll probably
remember that, back in the spring, Daff thought there was something
wrong because Bluebell was doing black poo (I’m sure she won’t want me
to mention this but it is relevant). Eventually she was sent to a
place called Dick White’s at Six Mile Botty near Newmarket where she was
diagnosed with a fancy cancer called leiomyosarcoma - Daff only had an
ordinary carcinoma three years ago and that’s much less special,
apparently. They removed her tumour, but when she went for a check-up
in September, she’d got another. Greedy little madam, she would have.
They took that out as
well, and Mr P was so worried about her, he left his tail in the car
door and had to have four inches amputated (you’d hardly know now, as
before then he had more tail than he knew what to do with). Anyway,
Bluebell’s specialist, who is apparently known by the Twins as Uncle
Jon, said she had to go back sooner than previously – in December -
for a check-up and – would you believe it, she’d decided to have
another tumour - on her liver this time. I know what you’re thinking,
but I can vouch for her; many faults she may have, but excess boozing
isn’t one of them.
Well, the position as
I write this is that she went in on Monday evening, had her tumour
removed on Tuesday and today (Thursday) they’re sending her home. I
think it’s because a) they can’t afford to feed her the tons of food she
demands all her waking hours and b) they can’t put up with her screaming
any longer. Anyway, John and Daff are pleased to see her because they
say the house is too quiet without her. We try to fill the gaps, but
never quite manage it.
This time it’s going
to be different though, because once she’s recovered from her op, she’s
having chemotherapy, the idea being to zap any tiny tumours she might be
thinking about nurturing. Daff has been assured by this Uncle Jon that
if she has any ill effects they will stop it immediately. We - her
loyal family – think she probably won’t, because she’s already addicted
to operations and, in fact, really enjoys them (she told me so
herself), but just in case her luck runs out, I would like all those
friends of hers who have tolerated her screams and general demands over
the last four years to pray really hard for her in the next few weeks,
if only because Rainbow Bridge is a tranquil place and not ready for
disruption of this sort. Fingers crossed, Bluebell, we’ve missed you.
PS We had a Christmas
photo from my bro Timbo in Banbury – some of you will remember him as
the bossy one. He was wearing a really silly knitted outfit with
sleeves. Whatever next…………
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