Every so often I need to tie up loose ends, aware that I sometimes tend to take you along a path in these columns and then leave you in a cul-de-sac.
Those who email me get answers but that's not fair to those who don't.
So, first of all, Portia. She is alive but, unfortunately, not kicking. Tomorrow I'll pick her up yet again from the clinic, where I left her trembling two days ago, right rear leg useless once more. She was carried in from my car by the sweet nurse who attempts English to reassure her. "Good girl, beautiful girl," she says, lifting her gently and using her face to stroke Portia's defeated, drooped head.
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