Fergus

The author’s dog Fergus in one of his favorite places, the back of a moving vehicle. (Contributed photo)

 

Last Sunday night, Fergus — always the first one in our pack to turn in — slid himself off rhe couch and limped downstairs to our bedroom, exactly one hour later than the previous night. His timing wasn’t off, he just didn’t understand daylight savings time. For that matter, neither do I, and no one has ever explained to my satusfaction why we roll our clocks forwards then backwards every spring and fall. At any rate, Fergus was paying it no mind whatsever.

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