The saddest dog in the world sits in my hallway. He has just returned from four days in a cottage on the coast; his holiday is now over; he must search anew for meaning in life.
He fought; he made a friend, they chased a ball.
He discovered and lusted after sheep, he ate, he hurt his paw; he was lavished with attention; his paw got instantly worse.
He delighted in the discovery of, sniffed intently, and then immediately rolled in a dead seal; he was thrown in to the sea, twice.
Now he sits, the most forlorn of forlorn creatures, silently musing on his sharp return to normal life. Poor beast, perhaps a holiday is so much more to an emotional dog than it is to a human?
