Sadly, as of yesterday, Dr Bones's dog Boots is no more. She acquired him having been deemed by the pet shop an unfit person to own a goldfish, but apparently it was fine being responsible for a creature considerably higher up the evolutionary ladder (at least in theory). Boots was a rescue dog and came to the Dr quite young: we never knew his story, but it took him a while to get used to his new life, consistent with his old one not having been very much fun. I am not a doggy person - not an animal person at all - but Boots has been a part of all our lives for so long that, even though he's done pretty well for a greyhound-of-some-sort, it is sad to think he will be no longer. He was a venerable and faithful hound.
I have photographs of Boots in canal tunnels, conversing with Ms Formerly Aldgate, and listening to me speak about Charles Dickens on a London Goth Walk in the pouring rain, but here he is in Swanvale Halt rectory on the day of my induction twelve years ago. I think this was after he chewed the wall in the bathroom where he was confined while I and Dr Bones were at the ceremony itself. I mean, fair comment.
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