Yesterday I had to make that call I had been dreading for a long time, and just after 9.30 yesterday morning, Herbie died as the vet held him. It was old age, and pain, and the fact that he could barely walk, but mostly it was because I feared to see him in pain - he had started to pant at odd moments the day before, and that told me it was time.
He survived for six years with lymphoma, and over a year with severe glaucoma. He was never cured of cancer, but died with it rather than of it. He was almost thirteen and a quarter, which is a good age for a greyhound. He taught me so much, and I know I am a better person because of him. I am certainly a better greyhound owner. There will never be another dog like him. And I will never hold his foot again, and whisper "little Herbie feetie", something I did when he first came to me and was still recovering from third-degree burns on his feet, and that I carried on doing for the rest of his life. Run free, my golden boy.
