As some would have it, this may be the last day of this world. I must say I’ve enjoyed this world, and I’ll miss it, despite it’s many faults.  At the moment, my house smells like coffee, French toast, maple syrup, chicken sausage, sautéed walnuts, pears, blueberries.  I’ve just come in from the barn, where I’ve bedded it with lots of fresh straw, should the 34 year old La Belle Mare choose to spend the evening luxuriating in the soft golden fluff of it all.  I gave Rosie the bone from last week’s band holiday party leg of lamb, and as such, she feels like she is already in a better place.

Puck and Flora nearly turned green at seeing Rosie get a bone that was nearly as big as Flora. They informed, reminded, and otherwise implored me with their most desperate looks of longing, that they had only received a few of the MEREST morsels of meat in their meager breakfasts this morning.  I attempted to assuage their grief by telling them that they will no doubt find bits of Rosie’s bone later today outside.  For a “Me! Now! What’s tomorrow?” creature, this tactic is of course of no practical use whatsoever.  As such, they brooded–but not for long.  Indeed, they seem to have completely forgotten about this grave injustice as they curl up next to me on the couch, one on each side–a dog armchair, I call it–cozy by the fire, while outside the wind howls and rain falls.  Nap time. After all, one should be well rested to greet the next world.

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