Of Dingos, Digging and Dead Dogs.

Regular readers will be familiar with the four-legged tornado which is my dingo-cross, Caty.
Each time I write about her I usually include the line "things surely can't get any worse?". Each time I am proved wrong. She has really surpassed her achievements this time.
I had three other dogs years ago, all again rescued from some horrible situation or other. Strangely, they all died of cancer at the age of about 13 and within three months of one another. They included my truly beloved Buster, a collie-cross alsatian, who was the first dog I ever had.
The deaths of all three hit me hard. I hated the thought of them just being dumped in an incinerator somewhere and so I had special coffins built for each one and I ceremonially buried them in my garden.
Well, Cato has added sacrilege to her other misdemeanours (which include vandalism, rape and murder, for the unfamiliar among you). She has only gone and dug up Buster!!! She first of all dug down to him and then smashed her way into his coffin and started trying to pull his skeleton out.
Cato is not going to Grantham - well, not yet - but let's just say that she is proverbially on the way to the bus station!