Hi Tawny

Your right, of course you are (and so is everyone else), I'm sure I will get through but it's going to take time.

I have began composing a letter to the vets but I didnt want to rush it and be accused by them of acting out of grief fulled anger.

I am more than happy with Harveys vet and especially happy with the emergency vet and nursing staff who cared for Harvey on Wednesday when he had his first status fit. From the second I got him there they were on it, no messing about - quick exam of him then on a intravenous drip of diazipame stopping the seizure within about 6 - 8 minutes of me arriving. They were great and were really really concerned for Harvey.

It was a completely different duty vet and nursing staff who were there on Thursday when Harvey was PTS. It's this vet I do not think did the right things.

I'm taking my time and keep thinking over what happened so that I am clear in my mind that things did happen as I remember they did - it's easy to over react.

Here's something I want to share...

About 6 years ago I was living with a partner in the house I lived in before the one I am in now.

Harvey was of course there also.

She told me that when ever I went out for what ever reason, Harvey was always calm and his normal self, no separation issues but without fail may be 10 or 12 minutes before I'd get home he would go to the front door and wait. Sometimes he would stand and his tail would wag slowly but most times he would sit. Then when he heard my car he would get excited and start furiously wagging his tail and search urgently for a toy or bone to present to me as soon as I opened the door.

He did this every single time and he knew I was on my way home long before he could have even heard the car.

Can anyone explain this because I can't?

Yes, Dogs can anticipate their love ones coming home. Amber is always at the door to greet me and she also knows the Tesco van before it appears she gets excited as she knows it brings her treats. She also tells me when my son Steve is due home too. She greets him with a ball or a rubber bone. When I walk Amber and she is taking too long to do her toilet then I only have to send psychic message to her and sure enough she goes to it. Dogs are very psychic it proves they are still in touch with their spiritual side. So once you can calm your turbulent distress and listen to the small voices inside you will hear the messages Harvey is relaying to you. Good Luck. June's story is so true she relates much of what I have experienced too as does some of the others.

Dogs are very tuned in, Poppy appears to have her own time clock and knows when it's walk time etc. Maybe Harvey knew how long you were going to be out for and could estimate your return. Either that or he had hidden a 'tracker' device in your car and you were under surveillance.

I am so worried we haven't heard from Kenny. According to royal mail my special delivery was signed for by him at 9.51am this morning yet I have heard nothing from him by e-mail or on here. I am really concerned now. I do hope he is ok.

Moyra, I'm sure Kenny is fine, he often is quiet in the mornings. He is probably overwhelmed by your kindness. I get the impression he likes to think carefully before posting so I expect we shall hear this afternoon.

Hi everyone

I got Moyra's kindness okay this morning and I went to email her straight away but there was no 3G signal on my phone.

I was quite anxious to let her know but I have only just to a signal now, I have emailed her but incase she does not get it hopefully Moyra will see this instead.

Alls Well Kenny, Just do not trust Royal Mail after special deliveries have gone astray before. And then knowing how deeply upset you were I was very concerned for your health and welfare. God bless.

Oh Moyra

Thank you so much, I don't really have the words to say thank you enough, you have been deeply kind and caring. A rarity these days and as you know, it has made a big difference for me.

I'm sure Harvey knows as well.

Hello Kenny! I'm sorry I've been off for a few days-- been a bit under the weather and not up to dealing with my ageing computer, but I'm still trying to keep up.

I suppose, in a way, we were fortunate when Laszlo died. He had haemangiosarcoma: an evil, evil cancer that is incredibly aggressive, but is nearly impossible to detect until it blows up. It blew up, but the first one was on his spleen, and you can do without that. An absolutely heroic emergency vet removed it. She said, at the time, that though she couldn't find any more tumours while she was in there, that didn't mean they weren't-- and they almost certainly were; if she had found them, she said at the time it wouldn't even be fair to wake him up from the anaesthesia. They were there. They don't cause any pain, generally, but when they blow up, it's bad. We knew the next blow up was final, and it happened about a month later. There was no question of putting it off. He would have bled to death within hours, and that is not a nice way to go-- or we could have him put to sleep. Unfortunately, the timing was inconvenient, and I must have called every vet in the phone book trying to find someone, anyone, who would come to our flat. I don't know how I could just keep calling up and asking, anyone, please, please, come kill my dog-- but that's what you have to do. No one could, but friends came through; one who had been a vet nurse contacted her ex-boss who got out of her bed and came out after midnight to see to it. We had to drive him to the practice, and it was far away and unfamiliar, and Laszlo was a very timid boy anyway, and it was really hard to get him down the stairs-- he was enormous; two people could lift, but not carry him. It took two of us to do a sort of guided fall since he refused to be lifted in a blanket. By the time he was at the practise he couldn't even stand, but I held him up and he walked in. The vet did give him a sedative. She said she would get in trouble for it, but she didn't care. He drifted off, and she gave him the last injection. It was over in seconds. He was tired, he was on his way out, there was so little blood left in his brain. It was easy for him, or at least I think it was.

That was years ago. I'll never forget it and never get over it, but I wouldn't take back a solitary second of Laszlo's time with us. But like you, one of my regrets is that he never got to go to France. Very shortly before Laszlo got sick, my mother in law fell while hillwalking and died. My husband is the last of his line and the house fell to him. We spend time there every year, to keep it up, but also to just love being there-- it is great, out in the middle of nowhere, where you can howl with your pack without fear of retribution from the neighbours and heckle owls at night... we had his passport all sorted, all his jags, everything, but he just didn't have enough time.

His ashes are there, though. The house is a beautiful converted barn that we're going to do our darndest to keep in the family, and the most stable place we have. We have not buried them. They're in a pot in the warmest, darkest spot in the house, safe from bustle, with treasured books and stuff, and I still pick up that pot and hold it, and remember him.

And if that's pathetic, then we can be pathetic together, you and I.

Sorry for rambling on and on and on and on and ON... I just wanted to give you that story. I am at peace with Laszlo's death. It doesn't mean I won't always miss him. I always will, and even years on, sometimes the grief can come on like a thunderbolt. I don't see what shame there could possibly be in that, or why it should be at odds with having peace with his being gone.

There are these people-- usually they want to sell you stuff-- who go on and on and on about balance, always seeking balance. I wonder if they've read anything of the texts they spout, and I wonder if of anything that they have read, they have absorbed anything at all. I may not be old enough to have any authority, but I do an awful lot of thinking... it's my lot. And I tell you this, with all the truth I have being wielded by a large bald man with a spiritual cricket bat: grief is part of balance. Accept it. Accept that it might never go away. Temper it. Temper it with love, and with not hanging on to the past. Make it fast in the bottom of your soul so you can never let it go. It is not a sink, not a weight, not a boulder. It is fertile ground. Think of it as old bones: the bones of the cherished departed, now nourishing new growth.

Okay, that was really hard to write, and I hope it wasn't too awful. I really do have to go back to bed now.

Love to all of you!