Brandy and a Brownie

More than 5 years ago P's employers, chronic dog rescuers, brought a dog to the office. He'd visited before and they'd been trying to find a home for him but he had had a fear biting incident so the going was slow. On the day in question they let everyone know that they should say goodbye to Brandy because they needed to give up the search and put him down.

He was already 8 years old, probably wouldn't live very long, his legs weren't very good so, despite hers and dad's commitment to greyhounds and to minimal pet hair P brought Brandy home. They renamed him Brownie (I always just called him B in protest. I have a thing against renaming dogs. I know it doesn't matter to them but it weirds me out.) and he lived out his days with them.

Those days ended on Thursday. He'd been in a lot of pain, even chewing his back legs they hurt him so much, and was both incontinent and senile - a delightful combination. All the rest would not necessarily have been reason to let him go but the pain and his frequent falls were too much to continue to put him through.

Godspeed B.