Betsy no more

Betsy has just died. Our friend Emilie has just called to tell us this, and ask if Tom can help bury her. Betsy is/was a retired greyhound. I knew her back legs were going but this is a shock. Emilie is overbright and her voice cracking. Tom doesn't hesitate, and we are heading round there now with a good bottle of red, but the burying must wait till morning. He has put his back out, but we have two spades. He starts talking as though he'll be on his own about the bleak task, though I thought we'd already been talking about a co-operative effort. He always assumes he'll be on his own when the chips are down. Death always makes him angry. I stop myself thinking ' what if it were Molly?'.