The 99th Day

Let me describe the last morning of my last day. It started with a heavy downpour, washing down all my effort and expertise in cardboard-box houses. Even Louis was feeling lousy, and he is never lousy. The only thing left for me to do was to run for shelter and my immediate sanctuary was the opera house, Polunin, across the street.

For someone wearing bedraggled clothes with hair awry accompanied by a poor, shivering, washed-out retriever, the opera house was a daunting reality. And yet, I found myself dripping all over the red carpet under the red canopy with its gilded frame and gothic etchings. I heard the strains of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake wafting through the revolving doors. As I stood there, teeth rattling, I snuck a glance at the doorman, draped in latest doorman fashion, something straight out of a Sherlock Holmes mystery. He tutted at me like I was a thorn in his side, sabotaging a perfect landscape painting by John Constable with a blot of black ink, aka my sorry form.

Lousy and I, I mean Louis and I decided it was time to move on in an effort to save what little face we had left. We ran to the second-best respite from the torrential rain; the front porch of what seemed like a 17th-century baroque house from Vermeer's oeuvre. Even though I was unable to peek inside to find the girl with the pearl earring, I knew she was in there somewhere. The only thing worse than being shunned by the doorman was the Great Dane sneering, yes, sneering, from the, slightly opened, window. With a coat like black velvet, she now snarled and curled her lip at poor Louis.

Oh, the poor thing, he's having the worst day!

Louis whimpered long enough for me to understand his absolute horror at the state he was in front of the 'Queen of the Neighbourhood'.

Yes, Arabella was officially ordained as I had come to learn.

Finally, the pair of us circled back to the now wet, and flattened, cardboard box that was our mansion. Oh, well. What could be worse, right? Even on the street, this has to be rock bottom. I could not even manage to scrape together a piece of tin for a solid roof over our head in all my 99 days here. I have truly and miserably failed at this.

Miko would be oh, so disappointed. I tried to tell him that this will never work, I am a lover of the finer things in life and Louis? Louis was the debonair Prince, and in his prime he had broken many a heart. It was a hard life out here, I know because Bertie-Under-The-Bridge told me and her word was gospel. Bertie helped me weave together a story here on the hardened sidewalk, scrambling for a coin here and a suspiciously wet bill there. All I had accumulated amounted to nothing but a few shiny coins that were, in all probability, a type of metal that I could have used to build a house for the ladybug that resided with us. Actually, I may have accidentally crushed her in my sleep.

100 days. That is how long I was supposed to stake out in front of the Polunin, the tip was for tonight, or tomorrow morning, at 12:00 AM, but on my 99th day it seems like my time is up. The doorman is sure to recognise me, and Louis, in the next round.

My cover is blown.

Eh. I better grab a couple of freshly-baked pretzels for us before Miko arrives and drags me back to the station.

Come, Louis!