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November 7th. The hurricane.

I am really worried about Squeaky Cat, I tell Caspar. The Owner left him out in a Hurricane and now he looks all despondent.

Caspar says what do you mean, despondent?

I say well, he’s gone a funny colour and he smells funny.

Caspar asks what kind of funny colour.

All orange, I say. Like he used to be before the toils and troubles of life had taken its toll on him, and before he had been in the compost and the pond.

Was he in the actual eye of the hurricane, asks Caspar? Pressing at the window as water poured down on him, pleading to be brought indoors?

Exactly, I say. The hurricane had him in its terrible grip as his poor little face gazed at me through the glass. I could hear the faint echo of his pitiful squeak.

Caspar asks if Squeaky Cat by any chance now smells faintly of lavender.

He does, I say. I am still traumatised.

Caspar says that wasn’t a hurricane, that was the washing machine.

I knew that.

Categories: dignity dog dog philosophy philosophy

Hergest the Hound

I am a dog of many thoughts.

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