Interstitial 7
The dog's name was Spot.
"Spot and ye shall be heard!" its owner used to say. No, you're right, that doesn't make any sense.
It lived a modest existence in Tupelo, Mississippi and, contrary to popular belief, it didn't talk with a Southern accent.
When it thought words in its head it tended to sound vaguely Scottish. But not the kind of Scottish brrrrrrr you couldn't understand. Something refined, from a posh part of Edinburgh.
When it barked, well, then it sounded like a dog. The accents weren't the same there.
A dog's life, for a perfectly normal dog.
Except for that damn kid.
There was a kid two doors down, and, should Spot choose to sun itself on the lawn in front of its modest little house in Tupelo, Mississippi, the kid would indubitably drop by, tugging at its ears, begging it to please please rescue Jimmy, as apparently Jimmy'd fallend down the well.
Which was a bit alarming, so the first time it happened Spot ran with the boy, still tugging the old ears, over to where the well was.
Nothing.
The boy kept on pretending, shouting "Good girl, Lassie!" at Spot, clasping his hands to his own ears this time round and dancing around like he had to pee.
But there was no Jimmy in the well. And, frankly, the Lassie thing got old really quickly.
The times afterwards, risking the health of its ears, Spot would just sit still, hoping the kid would just go away.
You had to take the good with the bad, in a dog's life, it seemed.
disclaimer:
Late shipper this week... we're comin' atcha live tomorrow mornin', PST...
And we're away, enjoy, kiddos.