The Crossing, Quinto Giorno

28 06 2008

Denny has only opened the main door from the kennel to the deck twice and each time the inside of the kennel becomes a hurricane. Churchill was the onl one to venture forth into the bluster this morning. he returned, ears rumpled atop his head as though he’d gone for the up-do at the ball that night. Even his tongue was askew.

A windy day

The balls have become passe. there’s only so much one can do with a ball, after all. Stealing was fun for awhile, but that got me into trouble. Sharing is not a dogs best attribute.

Today, the balls are rolling on there own.

My Contessa has visited every day. Ironically, she arrives just as Virginia’s people dish out the room service every day. Still, La Contessa comes without a doggie bag. She has not gotten the memo.

The, the deck door opens and a broad white hat flies into the room. The Contessa follows, unable to retrieve her topper as her hands are full: a tray with a plate and a cover.

She sets it down before me a removes the top.

Steak Tartare.

Steak Tartare

My Contessa carefully doles out a nice mound into each of the eight dishes below the kennel staterooms. The dogs follow their noses to each treat and any hard feelings of stolen balls and toys dissolve in the ambrosia of raw meat and seasonings.

The magic of satisfaction and absolution in the offering of food strikes once again: La Contessa in the eyes of her companion and I, in the eyes of mine.

No more cake for me?




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