In the pub down the street, we sit by the fire, lavishly heaped with coal, myself gratefully cupping a glass of hot whiskey redolent of cloves and lemon. Several await me this evening. Tiogar comes in, receives treats from the bar owner, approaches the fire. He's old, deaf and maybe a little blind. He sniffs my hand—does he remember me, from when he was a pup, leaping about on his human's couch, before his human got married and had a child? He arches against my hand, as I rub his back. A teenage farmer sits at the bar, fresh from a cattle mart. A heifer calf, a Belgian Blue cross Limousin, sold at the mart for 21 grand. Apparently Belgian Blues are so big, they require cesarean births.

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The next morning is frosty and bright. I find out Kissinger is dead. Do the good die young? No need to list his long and vomitous slew of war crimes here. I felt a savage joy, which persists all day.

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