Not Again

I was going to try to write something witty about the Westminster dog show (which started last night) or Valentine's Day (I got the big box AND the teddy bear from Godiva) but when I got home last night I learned that my veterinarian of *mumble* years had died over the weekend. The Viking had taken Orion for his annual, which was supposed to be with Dr H, and arrived to find the office in a state of disarray and shock.

I don't know what happened; the Viking doesn't know what happened. Maybe nobody knows yet what happened. Maybe we never will. Here's what I do know: Dr. H was relatively young, with a wife and family. He was a good veterinarian, and a good man. I'd been trusting him with my pets for ... I don't remember. At least ten years. Just this time last year, he and Dr. R, the partner in the practice, were fighting to save Artemis.

We weren't friends in the sense that we socialised outside the animal hospital. Dr. R is also an excellent vet, so it's not as though I'm going to have to launch a long search to find someone else to care for my pets. But people like Dr. H are in short supply in the world. I'm going to miss him.

verso - recto