Picture a dapper Jack Russell Terrier trotting down a London sidewalk. It is early evening on a brisk fall day. The light from the street lamps cast his shadow on the side of a brick building. He is short of stature and tri-colored. No collar because he is above demeaning practices such as ownership. He wears a tweed coat and matching trousers. A monocle (purely for show, as his vision is superior) is tucked into his breast pocket. His head is bare. A deerstalker cap would be an excessive homage to Wishbone, who, frankly speaking, is a little bitch. This particular terrier would rather sip three fingers of bourbon than read to a small child. Tonight he is meeting his beloved at the ballet.
