When I finished reading The Secret Garden, two days ago, I thought to myself that nothing but wondrous things must come from this Yorkshire place, with its moors and heather and all, and then, in the mailbox, just yesterday, there came The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, from a township in New Jersey. A township named, Yorkshire. See what I mean?
"Bobo?" "What?" We are in bed. Me in mine, he on his. "It's cold." "MmmmHmmm," he grunts. "You're supposed to come up here and keep me warm." Bobo does not like sleeping next to me. He gets too warm and I scratch him too much. "Who says?" "The Boy and His Dog Handbook." "I've never read it." "I have. It's your duty as a dog to keep me warm." "MmmmHmmm." "Page Two." "MmmmHmmm." "You're mean." "Nope." "Kind of." "Nope." "Night." "Night."
Pete and Harley spent the whole glorious day chained and looking forlorn, and I saved the life of an enormous pig who looked like Uncle, but was named Porkchop, and then Pete and Harley miraculously escaped and we celebrated in grand fashion, and in the morning I'm going treasure hunting!