Recently a respected member of our work team shuffled off this mortal coil. He was 109 years old but still showed up every day, except in winter layoff.
He was short of stature, halfway up the shinbone of a tall man, but he had the scrappy demeanor of a Scots border fighter of 1000 years ago. His name was Casey, he was a dog. Cheerful in all weathers, feisty as a Glaswegian drunk on payday.
