Mr. B. hated waking up after a few hours of sleep, all hot and sweaty because the wife, without his knowledge, had raised the temperature of the room.
The wife of Mr. B. loved the hot and felt at ease in tropical climates.
Mr. B. did not like to talk about the early morning, and sat in the living room, sipping His bitter coffee, read the newspaper very seriously. Not everything, however, because he had the bad viziaccio to support the wet cup titles above or on the editorial, so that he could never read.
The wife of Mr. B. loved to speak very early in the morning and any argument: of time, the transience of scented geraniums, and the near hysteria of his cat, itself and its beauty.
Mr. B and the wife of Mr. B. George had a rough-haired dachshund.
Every day George was being carried out around 11 am, from Mr. B for the usual, toilet walk.
George was not any dog, but it was the dog of Mr. and Mrs. B., for this reason was receiving some respect in the neighborhood.
received from the tasty pork sausages, which were thrown by the rotund operator with an unexpected force and enthusiasm, most of the time, ended up hitting the poor clients, who were leaving the store with pieces of sausage in her hair.
from the florist's daughter received pampering delicate head. George rolled on his back and his purple tongue called the little girl to play. The girl, known throughout the country for his acumen, did not understand.
The afternoon was dedicated to spiritual exercises and daily visits to the uncle of Mrs. B.
George hated every afternoon of his short but intense life canine. Not being souls owners, all dogs be prohibited from entering the church, but not to him. Being the dog of Mr. B., had to have a shred of sweetbreads somewhere and it was well accepted even within the tiny, smelly, the village church.
The dark, cold and the intense smell of incense, put George uncomfortable and, sadly, he crouched next to the big ankles Mrs B., hoping each time not to come over it. But after the cold weather, the liturgy of the word, the Eucharist and the final farewell, the terror is now making its way into the mind of George as blurred, with the heavy Bentley Mr. B., were approaching at full throttle in his uncle's house lady B.
Nothing could portend the dark presence in this fine Victorian mansion. The sequence was always the same. Sound the bell. No noise. Wait five minutes. Look for the keys from inside the handbag. Enter. Dark. Switching on the lights. And from that moment, nothing, because George had never been able to see the uncle of Mrs. B.
He had seen a foot out from behind a tent, a hairy arm from under the bed and a piece back from the bathroom door, but never the whole figure. The uncle of Mrs. B. had never been fully seen by anyone. The only people who had received the Mr. and Mrs. B.
But the thing that terrified George is the complete lack of smell of his uncle. A human being with no smell.
Mrs. B. made tea and Mr. B. paid the shortbread, a favorite uncle, in a chipped saucer. And both stretched the cup of steaming tea and biscuits at the hand coming out from behind the sofa to secure flowers. It is not talking. Never. George could only hear the noise coming from the objects collided absently Mrs and Mr B. About six o'clock Mrs. B, resolute, and George picks her up, with the same resoluteness was wearing coat, hat and scarf, George incorporating the poor between the chest and the buttons of his coat.
The return to the big house of lords B. George was reassuring. He found his warm kennel and his food and he would let him go to his usual thoughts about why humans are so uninteresting . Reflections that would last until the next morning walk.
Bonne nuit!
(to Sebastian)
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