Poor Ben-dog has passed! Finally things came to a head, his behaviour was out of sorts, he could barely get down the steps, and we took the decision to call it. The right decision, absolutely right, so we tell ourselves, we have to tell ourselves, because … it’s tough as Hell.
The last morning, just waiting for the vets to do a home visit, looking for an excuse to have a last walk with him, for him to have a wee, but he couldn’t be bothered, “ah well, nothing that can’t wait,” I said as if to fool him. So we’re all just sitting around, wondering what to do, pacing, even. Then they came, two nice young women. He panicked a bit when they shaved one forearm to put in the IV, but then we had a final couple of minutes, them outside, then I got them back in and they loaded up the three surprisingly large syringes. So so quickly he lapsed into unconsciousness, so floppy, then only a couple of minutes if that and the vet put the steth to this chest, then said quietly, “he’s gone”.
The grief come in waves. D started writing a little book of memories, him in the corner of the room, lying in state, both of us expecting him to wake from his slumber. Next morning we were surprised by how much, how rapidly he’d bloated, which hastened our timing to leave for Cumbria, D having found a lovely place (recommended by the original crem but who couldn’t fit us in til Monday, which with hindsight might have been precarious considering how airship-like Ben was getting, and to be honest, pongy), but it was a fine drive to the Lakes and this very nice crematorium, Paws at Rest, with Paws at Splash hydrotherapy, a memory garden and other things as well, set a few miles from Penrith, and a canny lady running it. She asked if we wanted a tuft of Ben’s fur, we said it didn’t really do it for us and we’d rather he was intact, she agreed and told us of a former customer who’d wanted her to shave the whole dog for the fur to go into a cushion, nail clipping, everything, really OTT, and she’d refused. What else, boil it down to make soap?
In Penrith we found a very nice chip shop and a cafe called Daffodil, which was dog-friendly for Ringo, bunting and scones, but it’s a big village really, not quite the ‘city’ crem-woman termed it. Then we got Ben back in a little pewter pot and brought him home. Little darling.
“We’ve come on holiday by mistake!”. Of course we had to watch Withnail and I in the evening.
That was Friday and Saturday.
Maybe I’m repeating myself but we’ve had Rees Mogg saying concentration camps weren’t that bad, the number who died in them in the Boer War was the same death rate as Glasgow at the time, and it was war, and they were there for their protection, and we shouldn’t look at the past through the lens of the present. Holy fucking Christ. Over 25,000 women and children died in those British-run camps, which started as refugee camps but went on quickly to become hostage camps for the families of Boers, the families ethnically cealned off the land by a scorched-earth policy and imprisoned in camps run by the British where they died by the tens of thousands over years due to murderous neglect if not murder (getting shortened rations if their men were still fighting). It was and remains a crime against humanity. But don’t expect the lead MP of the ERG to appreciate that.
Ford has said it’s preparing to move. Honda’s threatening to leave Swindon and lose 3,500 jobs, although Brexiters claim this is to do with diesel regs and not to do with car makers continued declarations of concern about Brexit, no-deal Brexit, uncertainties, dealing with a government of maniacs, grave doubts expressed by Japan more than once, that we’ve also blown them off over a trade deal because Fox told them to hurry up (along with sending warships to the Pacific to bash China also seeing talks with them binned – and JRM having said Japan’s warnings about this were rich coming from a country that had recommenced whaling – dude WTF), and the EU-Japan FTA basically making it clear that, well, shit, if the UK is prepared to flip off all warnings, to compromise JIT production, to leave that massive same market we built our UK factories to supply, then … fuck ’em, we’ll build them at home.
A lot of talk of JCB, Bombardier, investing in Derby. I heard of so many firms around Darlington where everything’s on hold. … flybmi have gone under, blaming Brexit. They may have had a dodgy over-priced business model compared with Ryanair, say, but …
Someone on Twitter called me a ‘soy boy’ which apparently means I am effeminate because I don’t drink real milk but oestrogen-full crap soy milk, I am girly, without balls, etc. This was on a UKIP feed and is apparently a pet expression of the alt-right, which is useful as it duly identified my co-respondent as far-right. A Nazi bot at best.
The ‘gang of seven’ have left the Labour party, and this has caused a flap among campaigners, some saying a PV is now doomed, others that Corbyn had it coming, others saying whatever our differences we cannot forget we’re united in one task … but the timing’s very off, not least as we’ve got six weeks until Brexit so what they’re hoping to achieve by then is anyone’s guess, they don’t even have a party. Also today was released the report into Facebook’s dastardly dealings, its corrupted practices and involvement in election meddling with Cambridge Analytica. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-47255380
And yet for all that, the referendum still stands. Holy fucking hell. What kind of heist is this?
And! I called Peter Shilton an old fool, and someone pretending to know him challenged me to take him on. This is Brexit, present facts to the Leavers and they get violent:
An increasingly common sentiment:
This view has been around all the while:
Then there’s real threats: