Inspired by my little doglet, this is just an odd snippet to help put me back in the writing mood, after nearly a year’s absence from the blogosphere:
If Teddy had been the very proper British barrister he so resembled—after a night out, that is, in which his once-smooth moustaches and tidy Van Dyck bristled above his previously snowy cravat (now spotted and askew) like those of a defiant defendant in the dock; and of whose spotless gloves only one remained (the other discarded, perhaps, by mistaken habit into the conveniently waiting salver of a street-front wooden native proffering tobacco wares)—she would have poured him a cup of strong, bracing tea to help him restore order to his world.
He was not, however; Teddy was, in fact, a small black terrier with whorls of white in face and beard and one white-tipped front paw. He cared nothing for a cup of tea after a pleasant night curled in his basket, dreaming of excesses that his lack of opposable thumbs rendered impossible, but he was implacable and determined in his pursuit of the buttered toast that accompanied it. From plate to jam to lips, he was as fixed and constant in his vigilance as any member of the regiment, and twice as attentive to the possibility of being rewarded for his attention