And the man turned, looked past the wine bottle at the cat. Furry, fluffy, desolate. And the man knew then he would not pat that cat though he wanted to, just like he had in that house in the snow in Austria where he'd sat with another cat and another bottle of wine, where they'd looked out the window at all the cat tracks in the snow, muddy, blurry, and someone said they weren't cat tracks, no, those aren't cat tracks, but they were cat tracks and they saw those cat tracks all that winter until they died.
(Apologies to Hemingway)
(Apologies to Hemingway)
but no, they couldn't have died, because the world was still such a moveable feast, and the dog had yelped out a farewell to arms knowing that the sun also rises on canine companions who wait patiently near the old man ... and the sea.
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