Fabulous.

'Tummy trouble'. The best remedy is  a tour of the town. Not a soul to be seen at one o'clock. Every lamp post is carefully sniffed and studied. Our tour is conducted at a 'stately' pace. What the CCTV security guys must think when a slow moving fluffy dog and a hastily dressed man in carpet slippers appears on their screens is best left unimagined. ' It's that tramp and his mutt '. 

Come seven the family diva signals she wants to go out again. We head to the cathedral garden. The day  starting  warm and bright. Tourists arriving on the first bus from Edinburgh greet us. A retired golfing couple  introduce themselves. " Hi. We live near Chesapeake Bay " the man says as he tickles Sophie's ears. They  are in town celebrating their fifty fifth wedding anniversary. " We played Pebble Beach on our fiftieth. This is the only thing that could cap that " the wife informs me.

Fox scent on the grass in the cloister. Sophie follows it across the lawn, nose down, scampering like a puppy. She's completely lost in the thrill of the moment. Everything has led to this glorious tail wagging moment of bliss. A purpose in life to fill eternity. The garden echoes to the sound of bees drunk in the warmth. The family diva stands by the garden gate exhausted by her fox hunting but mesmerized by the sight of her shadow. 

At the bacon roll cafe the PONette shows no interest in either bacon or the roll. She has a cautious drink from the water bowl that's been brought out by the barista. An American woman in a bright scarlet puffer jacket, blue leggings and Hermes head scarf wanders over and asks " I'm from New York and coffee is really, really  important to me. Is it any good here ? ". That's a lot of information to process at this time of the morning but I reassure her that it's good enough for myself and my companion. "How fabulous. How absolutely fabulous" she replies. 'Fabulous' is pronounced in an elongated Brooklyn way that rises from a low FAB to a high LUSSH. FABB-yeww-LUSSH.  The family diva looks up and assumes that the woman is talking about  her - which on this unscripted morning, of all mornings, is the way it should be. 

Things start to move quickly. A breakfast of warm spaghetti and sausage ignored. Even the luridly coloured ( and usually forbidden ) supermarket dog treats, scientifically formulated to be irresistible, are spurned.  By the water bowl at the back door Sophie stumbles and struggles to get up.  A whimper - her first. This is when experience shouts out ' Now's the time' in an owners ear. The call made. An hour later later we're at the vets. Ten years condensed into seconds. That wide eyed 'will it hurt ?' look. Reassurance given. Trust cemented. The second injection. Paws held. " Good girl " said. Three quick breaths and she's running on ahead. 

Our male PONs were all aw shucks playful mischief makers. Sophie was a higher order of creation  - she was independent and stubborn and strong willed ( as only a lady with two titanium knees and an oaf of a brother could be ) and yes, she was, in her own way fabulous.  

Tonight a bottle of champagne will be opened and an old friend thanked for her faithful service. 

One thing to make you laugh. In that hour between making the call to the vet and heading off in the car Sophie decides she wants to go for another walk. She turns left at the front door and makes it the hundred yards down the road to the small hotel with the French breakfast chef. It takes a full five minutes but we get there. On the pavement outside the hotel kitchen she turns to let me know that this is where she wants to be. Here we stop. The chef sees her through the window and appears with a warm sausage. 'Bonjour madame'. It's sniffed but not eaten.  'The Font' goes to get the car as Sophie settles on the pavement for a nap. A place with happy memories. Pedestrians divert around us. This is where she's scooped up and driven to the surgery.

How's that for being a diva to the end ?