The Black Dogs of Bartholomew Cubbins

A huge storm is rolling off the Pacific, threatening to cover California with... water. Yes, there's a panic afoot and you'd think that martial law would go into effect any minute. Sheesh, California is a pussy, sometimes. Anyway, walking and poop scooping dogs in the rain is a pleasure, to be sure, but I don't mind because Walter (pictured) is a good fellow and the Chevalier du Marcel (image pending) has put a bizarre spell on me and tickled my feline senses, even though he barks and wheezes and snorts and whimpers and catortles and grimbaws and smelters and carrumphs and spitoodles, I admire his sturdiness and singular determinations and will try to exact some of these qualities from myself for the future which is where I need to be, as long as California opens her bounty and the breadfruit looks, smells, and tastes su-fucking-perlative then my mission is complete and I can honk a fentoozler or simply blow my crumdumpler from the golden hills of the realm.