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“At The Inn—Salted Beef” by Metassus

Our elderly fox narrator does something unwise that gets up the nose of the landlord, Boris, but you can always rely on Brontes, the surly minotaur, to make a bad situation much, much worse.

Today’s story is “At The Inn—Salted Beef” by Metassus. Based in the wild west of Ireland, Metassus started writing some time back as part of the "Thursday Prompt" group on Fur Affinity. His work has appeared in the Anthrocon magazine, in Fang Vol. 4, and occasionally on his printer by mistake. He is particularly keen on word-limited micro-fiction, calling them "365 Word Tales". At some point he'll have 365 of them and consider his work on earth done. You can read his writings and view his photography on furaffinity.net, or on metassus.com.

Read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

Transcript
Speaker:

You’re listening to The Voice of Dog.

Speaker:

I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

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and today’s story is

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“At The Inn—Salted Beef” by Metassus.

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Based in the wild west of Ireland, Metassus started writing some time back as part of the

Speaker:

"Thursday Prompt" group on Fur Affinity.

Speaker:

His work has appeared in the Anthrocon magazine,

Speaker:

in Fang Vol. 4, and occasionally on his printer by mistake.

Speaker:

He is particularly keen on word-limited micro-fiction,

Speaker:

calling them "365 Word Tales".

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At some point he'll have 365 of them

Speaker:

and consider his work on earth done.

Speaker:

You can read his writings and view his photography

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on furaffinity.net,

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or on metassus.com.

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“At The Inn

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—Salted Beef” by Metassus

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Boris, I must say, has never been the kindest of landlords,

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nor could the gruff polar bear ever be called 'genial'.

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Still, his ales are good,

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his inn is decent and it's open when you need it.

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That's important.

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For a fox like me, getting on in years, you really appreciate having somewhere to spend a sociable evening.

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Someplace warm–where you can tell a yarn, sing a song, sup a drink and have a laugh or two.

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Boris's Inn had a fire permanently blazing in the hearth,

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a new television–colour,

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no less, thanks to the insurance money when the last one was broken–and

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a motley crew of regulars,

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myself included.

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When mid-winter rolled around, snow and ice lay hard on the ground.

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Although it sounds poetic, it was nothing of the sort.

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Ice on the cobble-stoned street made walking treacherous for me, and I had to use my walking stick as a support.

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The bitter wind sucked the warmth out of me no matter how well wrapped up.

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I felt every one of my many years as I shuffled along into the gale,

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my face wrapped in my favourite scarf and my old battered cap stuffed down hard over my ears.

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I crossed the Green cautiously,

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headed for the comfort

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of my cosy berth

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beside Boris's hearth.

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As I climbed the steps at the entrance,

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thinking that a hot whiskey would chase the chills from my joints,

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I spotted the lumbering form of my friend

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Brontes stalking up the road from the barn in which he had taken lodgings.

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"Brontes! Are you not cold like that?"

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I called as he approached.

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He shook his head dismissively as he kindly held the front door open.

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While I peeled off my many layers and hung them on the special peg I considered all my own,

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the minotaur shook himself like a great big dog to dislodge the snow and water from his bare pelt,

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drenching me with the spray.

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He was a sight that would stir the blood.

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Barefoot, wearing nothing other than his leather loincloth

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and the black harness that held his silver axe on his back,

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it appeared that being almost naked in the freezing cold didn't knock a stir out of him.

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"I," said he as we pushed our way through the crowded common room,

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"do not feel cold like you do, old fox.

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In my homeland, far north of here, we have snow on the ground not just for six weeks as you do,

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but for a full six months.

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A chilly evening like this is

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nothing unusual." Boris stood behind the bar,

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polishing glasses with a snow-white cloth that matched his shirt,

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and his face. He gave Brontes an icy look as the minotaur ordered drinks for both of us;

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an unusual thing for him to do and most welcome, I can tell you.

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"You have money to pay for these, bull?"

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Boris growled, placing his glass carefully onto a pyramid of its sparkling brethren.

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He folded his cloth stiffly, folded his arms and looked directly into Brontes' face without blinking.

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I gave a little sigh.

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I really could do without the landlord's lack of trust in my big bovine friend,

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all the more so as I was really longing for a nice hot

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toddy, and could almost smell the cloves.

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Brontes, miffed, tugged the cord open on the small pouch that habitually hung from his waistband and opened it carefully,

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picking out four or five silver coins.

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He put them on his palm

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and held them out for the bear to see, giving a little snort:

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his way of saying

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"so there". Satisfied,

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Boris turned away without a word,

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filled a metal tankard with fresh water,

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then switched on the kettle for my hot toddy.

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Relief got the better of me, and I suddenly remembered a conversation I had with an old friend the previous day.

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In a too-loud voice I said "You know, Boris,

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we should really have a bit of a do here for the First Day of Spring this year."

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The gods only know why I had the misfortune to suggest this,

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how it–of all things!–came

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into my head right at this time,

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and quiet the conversation became in the common room just as I spoke.

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No sooner had the words had left my mouth, it seemed the entire bar was full of merry agreement for my idea.

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Boris's shoulders hunched–always

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a bad sign.

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He slowly turned from the measures and

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set my glass down with a heavy thud, sloshing the precious liquid gold onto the shiny counter.

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I put my ears down and pretended I was invisible,

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took a sip of my toddy and realised just how badly he had taken the suggestion.

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There was no brown sugar or cloves in my drink.

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It was just a measure of whiskey, drowned in hot water.

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Disappointed,

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and just a little hurt, I took my glass and retired to the far corner,

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where the minotaur was sitting, arms folded,

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glaring huffily around the room.

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I figured it might be safer there. "Can

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I join you, Brontes?"

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He nodded stiffly,

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so I sat down on the bench beside him.

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For a crowded room, there was a lack of people immediately around us–not

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all that unusual, as the

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warm leathery smell of wet bull is a bit of an acquired taste,

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and he had this awful habit of randomly challenging people he thought were staring at him ...

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yet no-one ever complained when he stared them down, for some reason.

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I imagine the ale-houses in his homeland are a riot on pay-days.

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Trying to make conversation, I looked down at his tankard and wrinkled my nose in a smile.

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"Are you sure you don't want something stronger than that,

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a big strapping minotaur like you?"

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He peered quizzically at me,

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then shrugged. "I do not drink alcohol,"

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he said simply, angling his head, horns framing his wide face.

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"Before you ask, it is not because I do not want to get intoxicated.

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I am not affected by beer or ...

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..." he leaned towards my glass and sniffed the vapours rising from my ruined hot toddy, "...

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or from spirits, like you do."

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Intrigued, and quietly hoping to keep out of the way of a polar bear whose happy drunken patrons were bombarding him with more and more outlandish party ideas,

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I quizzed my friend about his aversion to booze.

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His people, he explained,

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can drink any amount of liquor without feeling ill-effects.

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I thought to myself that this was a talent many of the burghers of our little town would appreciate,

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particularly on the Monday morning after a sporting Sunday.

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But Brontes and his kin don't even indulge their talent as drinkers.

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He went on to bemoan the waste of good grain

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'ruined' in the making of our favourite tipples.

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"So," I finally asked as I grew more and more annoyed at his smug expression of superiority,

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"you never have been drunk in your life?

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What a poor life it must be!"

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He was taken aback by my attitude and became defensive,

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like any red-blooded male.

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He peered imperiously down his snout and huffed with annoyance.

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"I have been intoxicated,"

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he confided quietly,

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"with salt." I laughed, despite my better judgement.

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"Salt? Yeah, right." Grumbling,

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he tugged his money pouch from the waistband of his loincloth,

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opened the knot of the binding and spilled the entire contents on the table.

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His five silver coins rolled around for a moment

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(proving that it was all the money he had),

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a small pair of primitive pliers joining them.

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He carefully pulled the one last item from the depths of the pouch -

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a smaller version of it,

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with a tiny drawstring.

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He opened it and held it out to me.

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"Salt," he said, "taste it.

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it." I dipped my little finger in cautiously, and placed a single grain on my tongue.

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It was indeed plain honest-to-goodness salt.

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"And -- eh -- this makes you drunk?"

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He nodded, seemingly pleased,

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with my interest in his kind.

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I pondered the concept of getting spaced on something as basic as this,

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"I see ... we just sprinkle it on our food to make it taste better."

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He explained it all to me then,

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rattling on and on about the country he came from, and how all the cattle–sorry,

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all the minotaurs, I mean–were

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given a small salt ration each month.

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Some (just like certain people who live around here, whose names I shall not mention)

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used it all in the first couple of days, leaving me with a bizarre vision in my mind's eye of a drunken herd

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(if that's the right collective noun for a bunch of minotaurs)

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staggering around town, singing songs and causing trouble.

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Suddenly I felt very relieved to live in a town far, far away from Tauria.

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Some others, he added, shared their salt with their comrades, and a smaller percentage

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sold their 'salary'

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for coin, and the most frugal of them saved it for months and years to use as a dowry.

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I wondered what they would do if their houses got flooded.

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It was all very peculiar,

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but as I thought a little more about it all,

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I realised that our money and notes were pretty much the same,

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except it didn't taste nice or get you tanked.

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Brontes carefully poured a few crystals into his palm

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and licked them up with his great big pink tongue.

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He leaned back, just as if he had downed a hot toddy–with

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cloves and brown sugar.

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I admit I envied his simple pleasure.

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Something entered my mind.

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"Brontes," I whispered, looking around,

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"I think it might be better if you didn't share your—erm

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—salt interest with too many people.

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people." He stared at me over the edge of his tankard, shooting me a look of perfect disdain

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with those solid black eyes of his.

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"I mean it," I said, trying to get the point across without riling him too much.

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"I'm sure that wouldn't be a big problem at home, where you don't have much of the stuff around, but it's different here.

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There's even salt shakers on the tables here when they serve food, for heaven's sake!

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I wouldn't like anyone to do something to you."

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The bull snorted and guffawed,

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then patted me on the top of my head as though I was a child. For a split

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-second I understood exactly why Boris felt like he did about the thick-skinned bovine,

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but I shook that unworthy thought from my head,

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pushed his arm away,

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and dropped the subject.

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After a pause, he broke the silence.

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"I do appreciate your thoughtfulness, friend Fox,"

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he muttered, his face solemn.

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"Forgive me if I dishonoured you by my reaction.

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The salt, you see ...

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..." I sighed and drained my glass,

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my thought of another one

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tempered by Boris bellowing at the patrons that continued to press him for a Spring Holiday party.

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I knew if I asked for a refill now, I'd probably get just a glass of hot water, without the glass.

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You know the way.

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Boris doesn't like anything to disturb his perfect little world.

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With little else to do, and my name no longer welcome,

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I decided to head home,

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leaving Brontes in his corner

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and Boris in a temper. oOo

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The following morning was bright and dry, but viciously cold.

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The storm had blown over leaving a light blue dawn,

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with a more than a hint of orange on the horizon.

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I've found that the older I get, the less sleep I seem to need.

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After a cup of coffee and a slice of toast and honey,

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I dressed myself warmly,

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grabbed my stick

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and headed out for my usual early morning walk around the village.

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The puddles were iced-over.

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Milk bottles outside front doors were frozen solid,

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the robins blunting their beaks as they chipped away at the tops.

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My breath made puffy clouds of steam

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and I felt alright once my legs unstiffened.

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Few people were up yet, but the occasional smoky column from random chimneys multiplied as the minutes went by.

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I could see all the mothers and fathers in my mind's eye:

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wiping sleep from the eyes of their children,

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stoking the stoves,

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frying rashers of bacon

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and plump sausages; and yet

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it felt like I had the town to myself.

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It was lovely—until I noticed puffy clouds of steam rising from the shallow ditch

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opposite the Inn. Wonderful.

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Only one person I knew could ever be lying in a ditch in this cold.

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Only one person could conceivably end up in a ditch in the first place.

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I hurried over to see what that one person was doing, and then I saw something that made me wish I was blind.

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Brontes, for who else could it possibly be,

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was lying on his belly in the ditch, his head cradled in his arms, sound asleep.

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His loincloth was tied between his horns like bunting.

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His money pouch was tied to the end of his tail

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and the teeny little salt pouch he had shown me

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was discarded and empty,

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sticking out of an icy puddle by my feet.

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The minotaur looked content,

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peaceful, happy, cold and exposed.

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I admit I did a face-palm, pulling my whiskers, wondering what in the name of all that's good and holy

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had got him into this position,

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and how I could help him out.

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I clambered gingerly into the ditch and looked at his happy, dopey face.

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He was snoring contentedly.

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"Brontes!" I hissed,

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"wake up!" He didn't even stir.

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I grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

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Not a motion. I won't get into the next ten things I did, but the eleventh involved whacking the idiot bull hard in the ribs with my walking stick, and all he did

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was roll over onto his back.

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If I hadn't already gone blind at the first view,

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I did so now. Let's

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get some things clear.

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I like Brontes. I like his manner, rude as it sometimes is.

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I like the way he carries himself.

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I like the way he never backs down,

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and I like that he is embarrassingly honest,

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decent and real. At the same time,

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there are moments when I can't stand him.

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He smells awful when he's wet.

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He never takes advice

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—ever. He acts like no-one I've ever known

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(and that is a bad thing).

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He has a penchant for destruction—intentional or otherwise

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—and he never lets common sense guide him

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when there's even the merest opportunity for chaos.

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In short, the minotaur is

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nothing but trouble.

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Still, there's something sad about him.

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He's helpless. He's lost in a world that is beyond him and,

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though he tries with bluster and muscle to make it fit his ways,

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he fails in each and every way to be a part of village life.

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He is like a bronze-age fox in a world filled with technology;

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an abacus among tally machines.

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He is everything we are not.

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In our village, everyone wears

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nicely tailored clothes.

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Not Brontes. We lean over our fences and chat amiably to our neighbours.

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He tries to slaughter them if they look sideways at him.

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We hold doors open for little old ladies.

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He tilts his head when they speak and runs away if they get too near.

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We call ourselves civilised.

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Brontes is wild,

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freakish, uncivil ...

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and so wrapped up in his idealised principles of honour that he doesn't know one end of his axe from the other.

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And speaking of his precious hatchet ...

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I couldn't wake him, and in his state of undress I wasn't sure if I wanted to do so.

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I climbed out of the ditch,

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headed over to the Inn, and hammered on the door.

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As I did so, I noticed the front window was covered with a sheet of plywood.

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A sinking feeling came over me,

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my ears flattened, and when Boris opened the door and looked down at me as if I was as welcome as a cockroach in his kitchen,

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I knew I was in trouble.

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"Good morning, Boris!" I said with false cheer.

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I got an angry grunt in reply.

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This was not good.

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I attempted to quiz him about the window.

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I genuinely would love to tell you that I pointed at the missing glass and asked him a question in a forthright and mature manner,

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as befitting one of my years and rich experiences.

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Sadly, no. I was scared of him now and my voice came out like a babbling child's. "Uh, er ... uh ...

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heh. Wh-what happened t-to the window?

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Boris? B-boris? The w

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-window?" I really didn't need to ask.

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It had to have everything to do with Sleeping Moouty in the ditch.

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Boris slammed the door in my face, then a voice from the ditch bellowed

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"SHURRUP WE'RE TRY'N SLEEP H'R"

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and faded off to a rattling snore.

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I pushed the door open, steeled my resolve,

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and followed Boris into the common room.

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My shocked gasp caught in my throat as I gaped around in amazement.

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I don't think my simple words could in any way do justice

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to the scene–the place was a shambles.

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Tables were battered and legless, chairs destroyed, cushions ripped,

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benches broken beyond repair.

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The mahogany bar counter, of which Boris had long been justifiably proud,

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was cracked right down the centre,

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and its glossy lustre smeared with the contents of the broken bottles that still littered the floor.

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The window, or should I say what was left of the window,

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had a large hole,

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depressingly minotaur-shaped.

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Boris leaned on the bar,

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a broken man, and spoke in a horribly twisted voice.

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"That–that–THING

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is never, EVER coming in here again!"

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He turned around, almost foaming at the mouth.

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His fur was on end,

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his eyes were wild and his teeth were bared.

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Landlords are a hardy bunch, able to withstand more or less any misfortune thrown in their direction,

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and they deal with difficulty each and every day.

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Drunks, bar fights, riots, grudges,

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copulating couples in the toilets; all of this and more

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are the wont of the barkeep.

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Boris, I had to assume,

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had finally met his match,

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but his match had horns.

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I picked my way across the debris to my usual stool and noted sadly

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that it would never be used by me, or any other, ever again.

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It took ten years to mould that stool into perfection.

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I sighed and Boris, who had dropped behind the counter,

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stood back up and snarled at me, as if he had realised I was still there.

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"Old fox," he spat as he pounded his big white fist on the scratched counter,

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"you started all this last night!"

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I stepped backwards

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and put up my paws,

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holding my walking stick between us.

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In his state, Boris could do almost anything.

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"YOU brought in that damn cow in the first place!

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YOU started all this talk about parties.

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And YOU told everyone about HIS problem

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with bloody SALT of all things!"

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This was a step too far.

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I pulled myself up to my full height

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(not all that much in comparison to an incandescently angry and seriously traumatised polar bear, but there you go)

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and stepped back within reach of his fists,

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glaring at him. I imagine the innate respect folks have for their elders was the only shield against

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Boris could have done to me, and I subconsciously milked it for all it was worth.

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"My dear Boris," I said,

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making my voice as reassuring as I could and hoping he didn't notice I was trembling,

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"I take issue with some of what you have said.

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I met Brontes, who I call a friend,

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out on the street

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as he was heading here.

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I did not ask or lead him to the

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Inn. I still have no idea

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of what happened,

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though I'm beginning to see what might have happened–"

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He opened his mouth to speak and I held up one paw to stop him. "No, let me finish.

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I accept full responsibility for the suggestion

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that we have a Spring celebration here.

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Before you came here to run the Inn, Matt had one each and every year, and the profits from it were

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good. You go ask him.

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him." Matt was the landlord until he retired. One of

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the finest tigers I ever knew,

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though I don't know all that many.

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"He'll confirm it.

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And it so happens, Boris,

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it was Matt who suggested it to me

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in this very room

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last Tuesday lunchtime, while you were away in town."

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I took a moment to gather my breath and was curiously satisfied that the polar bear didn't speak.

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He appeared to be stumped,

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as he respected Matt and often asked his advice.

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I only wish I had mentioned Matt's name the night before.

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"And as for the salt,"

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I continued while the going was good,

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"Brontes explained his—er

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—reaction to the stuff without realising that it might be better for some folk not to know about it.

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I told him right away that he shouldn't tell anyone,

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knowing this lot.

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lot." I paused again, gesturing around the empty room.

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A slick of sweat matted my forehead

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and a nice hot toddy would really be welcome about now, but though

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Boris seemed to be a little calmer,

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I doubt he would indulge me.

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"So... Please, Boris, what exactly happened after I left?"

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The tale was short and to the point.

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Being a landlord usually means that you are more a listener than a talker,

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and the big white bear was true to his profession.

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His language was coarse and blunt

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and the light skin inside my ears probably went as pink as a puppy's.

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I'll summarise it for you with some information I got afterwards, to fill you in.

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After I went home, someone started

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to salt Brontes' water

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—a little at first

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—then more and more,

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as the bull got more and more drunk.

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He got boisterous and went from

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bellowing from his corner to stomping around and poking people in the chest and accusing them of

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'dishonouring' him. Then he got himself into a blazing row with some lion from out of town,

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a big powerful type with a flash shiny sword.

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The locals abandoned ship,

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rightly assuming that a drunk minotaur with an axe and an unknown lion with a blade

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might have enough fun chopping bits off each other that they would

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leave the villagers out of the equation.

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Boris took out his baseball bat.

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Then things got from bad to worse.

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A cousin of the cougars that used to work here a while back,

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a sneaky little worm named Ross,

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ran down to The Ferrybank, the other pub at the other end of the village

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—a greasy, rough establishment with no electricity and no class

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—and announced there was a big fight at the Inn.

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Of course, the place emptied right away and the mob headed up the hill.

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By this time Boris had more or less managed to calm the lion,

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push Brontes into a corner

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and shut him up for a while

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(I haven't had any explanation at all how he managed this feat.)

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Everything would have been fine,

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except that Ross had done the magic for which his family are best known.

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The hoard burst in the main door, swooping on the lion,

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the salt-drunk bull and the landlord.

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By all accounts, the resulting barney was legendary,

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and the lion was the first to go through the window, followed by both halves of his cheap tin sword.

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Whatever you can say about the rapscallions of The Ferrybank, they will always defend their village from outsiders

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first, before going on to batter their own kin.

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Brontes rejoined the hoo-hah, and out of his skull on salt,

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pulled off his loincloth and tied it around his horns!

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Apparently, he then attempted to climb the glass shelves behind the bar,

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looking for the 'Pole Star'.

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He found it—one of the security cameras mounted on the ceiling,

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and ripped it from its mount in an effort to defend it to the last,

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even forgoing his axe in the effort.

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A Ferrybank wolf's attempt to steal the axe

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was thwarted when he got beaned by Boris's baseball bat.

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The Ferrybank crew, having reduced the noble common room to something approaching the standards of their own dive,

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smashed all the drinks bottles to give it that last touch of class

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and signed off by flinging Brontes out the window,

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where he landed on the unconscious lion,

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bellowed some more incoherent babble,

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staggered over to the ditch, then fell in and fell asleep,

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naked as the day he was born,

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in the freezing cold.

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Boris pulled the unconscious feline back into the wreck of the common room

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and tended him until he recovered and stormed off, probably

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embarrassed beyond belief.

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His tacky sword was left behind.

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The polar bear then

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boarded up the windows and locked the door, leaving Brontes where he was.

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Where he was! It suddenly hit me that he had been out all night and probably had some nasty frostbite.

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Not good. I ran from the room,

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out the front door, across the road and down into the ditch.

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I shouldn't have worried.

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He was still on his belly, head to one side,

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a contented smile on his face.

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He looked as though he was dreaming,

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and it appeared to be an arousing one.

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His left arm was pillowing his head, and his right was ...

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engaged in an activity.

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I shall not expand on it as there might be ladies reading this and it would not be right to bother them with 'man problems'.

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It was early in the morning, ladies,

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and after all he was a bull, so a little understanding of our weaknesses would be appreciated.

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So how does one awaken an eight-foot high minotaur with three horns? (Ahem.)

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I pulled his loincloth free of his head and threw it over his midriff,

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then roared as loud as I could into his ear.

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"STAND TO ATTENTION!"

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He got up so fast he knocked me over,

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and stood rigid, and somewhat dazedly,

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until he got his bearings and realised where he was.

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He looked left, then right,

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to the Inn, and then down at me.

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Without a word, he helped me to my feet,

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then picked up his loincloth and wrapped it around himself.

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I opened my mouth to talk to him,

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but he climbed out of the ditch and stomped down the road before I had the chance.

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I decided to go home.

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This was not looking like it would be a good day.

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Maybe not even a good week.

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And it was a full week before the Inn opened for business again.

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I hobbled in, complimented Boris on the quality of the restoration work, and sat in my usual place.

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I was genuinely touched

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to see that my old stool had been expertly repaired–how,

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I don't know. I had a little knowledge of carpentry and I thought the stool would never be right again.

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A hot toddy, complete with brown sugar and cloves,

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was placed before me.

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I handed over some coins and sipped it.

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Boris continued wiping glasses and didn't speak to me at all.

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I didn't push it.

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It was just good enough to get back inside.

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Just then, I noticed an odd little hatch on the back wall beside me.

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Two small doors, held closed with a hook-latch,

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had been cut into what was formerly a flat wall.

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I frowned as I tried to work out its point.

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I worked out where it led.

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The woodshed? Strange.

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Why would anyone make a hatch for firewood so high on a wall?

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I was just about to ask when someone on the other side hammered on the doors.

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Boris smirked as he reached over,

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unlatched the hook, and swung them open.

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A surly bovine face appeared at the hatch.

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Brontes didn't look at all pleased.

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"I want water," he said flatly,

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"and I want my axe.

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axe." Boris passed him in a tankard of tap water and shut the doors again,

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a satisfied smile on his face.

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He was so pleased with himself,

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and with the surprise on my face, no doubt, that he spoke to me at last.

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"Three problems solved, old fox.

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No bull in The Inn.

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Someone to split all of the wood in the woodshed with the blunt little hatchet that's out there,

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and a nice new decoration as a conversation piece!"

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I followed his pointing finger and

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gasped. Where the glass mirror behind the bar used to stand,

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there now hung a very familiar large silver axe,

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and a broken sword.

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"He'll only get it back after he cuts enough wood with the old hatchet

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to keep us going for the next year!"

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The sound of chopping wood and swearing from the other side of the hatch

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was only matched by Boris's manic laughing ...

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This was “At The Inn

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—Salted Beef” by Metassus,

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read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

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For more stories you can find us wherever you get your podcasts,

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or on the web at thevoice.

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thevoice.dog. Thank you for listening

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to The Voice of Dog

About the Podcast

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The Voice of Dog
Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read by Rob MacWolf and guests. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @VoiceOfDog@meow.social on Mastodon, @voiceofdog.bsky.social on Blue Sky, or @Theodwulf on Telegram.

About your host

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Khaki