I'm not sure if running over a 200T with the chip truck is as bad as fueling-up w/ straight fuel someone forgot to mix but either way, it's enough to make a hardened man cry.
I feel for your loss. 200's and the 460 are indeed crew members with souls and tools that deserve a mention at the Thanksgiving table alongside the best of our loved ones both passed and present.
How many of you felt like your eighth Christmas morning when your wish of a B-B-Gun came true and you couldn't sleep that night thinking about all the big game and target range possibilities the next day? That's me when I leave the dealer with a new Stihl. I bring her into the house, set her on the kitchen butcher block and admire her for the beauty and presense of her being. The first week I reluctantly bring her to work, guard her with my all, and make certain no chip or oil spill or yuck pollutes her shine. No one can touch her, only lavish praise on me for my expensive investment in something of such greatness. Eventually someone asks "Where's the 460?" I ignore them in hopes they'll grab for something else. After two weeks, they just take her but I watch from above, carefully, and shouting threats of murder if they mess her up and completely unable to concentrate because I'm listening and aware, my hundred-fifty percent attention turned to the possible slob and irresponsible thug that's molesting my baby. He's aware too, of my attention, which makes for a very inefficient day. Irregardless, all seems to go smooth.
Then we rake it up clean, submit the bill and pile in, across town to pig-out and celebrate and when coming out of the diner with fat bellies and chewin' our picks...the 460 is gone. Friendships suffer, comraderie challenged, ugly words and possible fisticuffs ignite. Kill these jerks, wish 'em dead, fire their lazy arses.
After a few minutes I wish now I could go back and fix, I realized I stashed the saw under my truck in the hopes of prolonging her life from multiple users, keeping her from grabbing distance to chop down brush and crud while other more adaptable saws were at more disposability...and my baby is left in an alley of a location of questionable refute, flattened beyond repair to the point that wandering youthful gangsters didn't even want to procure.
As hard as loosing my Dachshund last year, but that wasn't my fault.