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In a funk, he slunk back down the hall. The 40-watt bulb that was the only light in his room glowed dimly. He grabbed a book from the shelf, and flipped through the pages. Finding the picture of an old basset hound he started crying. The tears were of the sweetest kind - he tasted each one as it fell, thinking of Hugo's breath and the softest velvety ears that ever graced the canine form. The light flickered again, probably because the generator was low on fuel again.
A man who has lost his dog is like a moonless night when two lovers miss each other. Barking out questions and waiting a return "ARF" of love. Waiting with no answer. That's why he had made such a scene at the 7-11 just now. The coffee was cold, the nachos were burnt, and the corndog was mushy. Eew. The funk deepened, and he went over to his desk with the intention of working further on the memorial mural in honor of his mutt. Applying a little glue to one of the corn dog sticks, he placed and held it carefully. The last whisker. Hugo was complete, just as the sun was coming up. His funk felt like it was almost ready to lift.
