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Idon’t profess to be an expert on just about anything.
But there are a few things I’m pretty sure about, and with that in mind, all I’m saying is that a stick should make you happy.
Since Rory showed me that little white stick—the one I hid behind the couch with the rest of my treasures—she seems stressed for some reason.
I don’t think it’s that I took her stick. She was going to throw it away, after all, so it doesn’t seem like it was that important.
Maybe I can bring her a new stick. One of her very own. That should make her happy.
Or I could let her see my collection of things behind the couch, but I’m not sure I want to part with all of those treasures, and if she or Nate sees them, you never know.
I’m pretty sure Nate will want his sock back, if nothing else.
I contemplate the options as I snuggle into the sawdust of the empty stall. We should really look into getting things like this at home. I love my crate, most of the time, but this? The soft sawdust, the expansive space, the faint scent of manure—it’s almost extravagant.
Voices carry from a few stalls down as I enjoy my time in the lap of luxury. It’s much easier to relax now that the panic has died down.
I cock my head, making sure I don’t miss anything.