Mr Fluffy Goes South
I am writing to you from a so-called ‘kennel’ – actually a cage – in the hold of the Spirit of Tasmania, a massive boat that I’m guessing goes to Tasmania. I’ve been here all day. I was excited when my human let me out of the car this morning after two long days on the road but alas, this was no leafy campground full of ground-feeding birds to chase, but a hell of oil and metal-smelling dankness and loneliness. I can hear and smell the other dogs – only four of them – but we can’t do our proper introductions because our cages are stacked on top of each other. Cruel, cruel fate.
My human packed up the car again three days ago. What is this mania to drive all day and then sleep in a tent? This tent, like the other one, requires extensive patrolling of the perimeter, both inside and out. And then there are the dimensions of the campgrounds to be ascertained –endless tall eucalypts, green rolling hills of farmland and bush on the misty coast south of my city – all very different from out winter trip to the dry rocky outback with its open skies. And when we finally turned west to go to The Other City (as it turned out), I could smell bushfire. But I let my human worry about that – I was too tired from all that camp security.
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