Way-aye, Roscoe here. And it’ll be just me for a while, since Nev and Biggles don’t want to learn to blog. Sorry about that. I hope you don’t get bored with me.
I must never say things seems settled again. There we were, all comfy like, with a nice routine, and then Bertie says “I’m going to stay in my tunnel today.” Then he says “I’m feeling funny.” And Mam takes him to the vet two days in a row, and on the third day he goes over the Rainbow Bridge.
He was only three. Mam says that’s no age at all. She sits with us and tells us things, most of which I don’t understand. I know she’s fretting that she should have realised Bertie was ill sooner, but really, Mam, he wasn’t. Tuesday he was out on the grass with the rest of us, enjoying himself. Wednesday he was a little subdued, but we thought he was just having a tummy upset.
Trouble is, as Auntie Sophie said, he packed an awful lot of character into that little body. Always getting into things he shouldn’t be doing, winding me up so I go with him. I really miss our little excursions down the hallway and into the front room. And everything else we got up to. It wasn’t much fun sitting in among the tents in their storage area yesterday morning, although I suppose I’ll keep doing it, cos it’s nice.
Anyway. Mam says we’ll be in mourning for the next seven weeks, as is right and proper. I’m glad she knows our traditional customs. Seven weeks is the same length of time since we moved in properly, and all Mam’s furniture arrived. It’ll go quick, Mam, don’t you worry.
I wish I could say Bertie will be back with you next week, but he won’t. It’s just me from now on.
Keep safe and don’t go out catching anything.