Thelonious kept himself entertained with the nightly rituals at The Drowned Duck. The publican’s flatulent dachshund had emerged from behind the bar and was waddling about the room, begging crisps and chips and anything else he could con from the patrons in between humping chair legs and the legs of anyone who remained still long enough to allow him his pleasure. Not wanting to tempt fate, Thelonious drew up his feet to the topmost rung of the chair so Lord Nelson couldn’t reach them—not that it would’ve been possible what with the dog’s low height and Thelonious’ short legs, but why tempt fate? He was glad he’d splashed on some eau de cologne before heading out for the evening. Although he was always meticulous with his hygiene and grooming (unlike many of his kind, he was sorry to say),
