Fabian Perez Waiting For the Romance to Come Back IIFabian Perez VeniceFabian Perez For a Better Life IIIFabian Perez Untitled IIThomas Kinkade The Aspen Chapel
canine shapes staggered uncertainly up the midnight street.
‘We’re of bottles. Laddie could bark the number of fingers people held up; so could Gaspode, of course, but it had never occurred to him that such an activity could be rewarded.
Laddie could home in on young women who were being taken out for the evening by a hopeful swain and lay his head on their lap and give them such a soulful look that the swain would buy him a saucer of beer and a bag of goldfish-shaped biscuits just in order to impress the prospective loved-one. Gaspode had never been able to do that, because he was too short for laps and, anyway, got nothing but disgusted screams if he tried it. poor li’l lambs’, Gaspode howled, ‘wot have loorst our way . . . ‘ ‘Woof! Woof! Woof!’ ‘We’re li’l loorst sheeps wot have - wot have . . . ‘ Gaspode sagged down, and scratched an ear, or at least where he vaguely thought an ear might be. His leg waved uncertainly in the air. Laddie gave him a sympathetic look. It had been an amazingly successful evening. Gaspode had always got his free drinks by simply sitting and staring intently at people until they got uncomfortable and poured him some beer in a saucer in the hope that he would drink it and go away. It was slow and tedious, but as a technique it had served him well. Whereas Laddie . . . Laddie did tricks. Laddie could drink out
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