Monday, March 30, 2009

March 10th

Behold the Desert Fox himself, Rommel, at home in his native lands. A hole has been dug, a bright be-feathered toy is at hand, at so he sleeps, dun hide cloaking him from sight lest foes fall upon him in his untroubled slumber.

Lo, the mighty Cadpig, exhausted puppy of the porch, napping whilst the noontime sun beats uselessly around him down. Come the night he arises to survey the domain he shall surely grow to rule.

Dean emerges from behind a motorcycle to confront us and demand an accounting of out reasons for coming by this way. With many apologies and vows of good behavior, we were at last allowed to pass.

Remus here is napping now, while all is quiet before him. Should he ever have cause to rise from his quiet perch, he would display such measure of true ferocity to put all else to naught.

Lo, the sleeper wakes, and unveils now his fearsome gait, his stature awe-inspiring! Warning us (as dogs here oft do) against any thought of mischief making so long as within his lands our actions lie.

Costello here seems an affable chap, with a wonderful courtyard beneath his paws. He looks out for sport and not for alarm; that vigilant task is often assumed by the dog next door, the Dog of the Shop, whose lands lie close at hand.

Abbot here is a sprightly lad, no doubt a friend of long standing with dear old Costello, whose dooryard here he shares. He prefers the cool caress of concrete and cement beneath his carefree paws, sharing also a love of sitting there observing as outside the gates the world passes by.

The Dog of the Shop, not to be confused of course with his venerable counterpart, Dog of the Stoop, keeps a watchful eye over his partner's (for of whom could it be said to Master such a self-possessed Dog?) wares, all the whilst ensuring that his longtime task leaves him none the worse for wear.

Wren (in the back) and little Lafayette observe with keenest interest the doings of the human sent to observe their constructions, supplying to their canine wit naught but the thumbs they lack.

Perhaps not a real dog, 'tis true, but majestic all the same.

The fleetfoot Champer-Scamper, who scampers like a champ. I give him thanks for allaying so his swiftness, that we all may catch a glimpse.

Patience is his name, and his charge is underpaw. His keen eyes and sharper nose no danger now discern. If ever stranger come his way, he will surely know, and keep his senses keyed to them until away from his sacks they chance should go.

Another view of Patience, sitting regally.

Mini-Migou, confined behind plate glass. His shop he guards with fearsome yaps, the slapping of his feet.

Marca here lives at a shop, selling a most excellent coffee coming quick with tea. Guarding the sideyards and the tables is no doubt dusty work, necessitating just such a scratch.

Luca here is the compatriot of Marca. Together with a third (left for another day) they form a canine triad, circling roundabout.

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