April 17, 2019

Charles rarely emerges from the lower pantry, and on those occasions when he does, the staff bolts pell mell in every possible direction. Charles has that sort of an effect on sentient creatures of any stripe. Stone cold fact.

Last Tuesday, so I’m told, Charles emerged, and the staff bolted, all save Buddy, the footman’s harbor dog. Time passed. The staff dared to creep back after Mills, the butler, observed through his binoculars and commented on the closing of the lower pantry door.

They buried the paws, the lone remnants of Buddy. The footman wept and vowed revenge. On the following day, they gathered most of the footman’s torso and buried it next to Buddy’s paws while Frida, the cook, worked on the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle. The parlor maid played the harmonium.

All right, I’ll admit it. It’s splendid to be rich and Charles. I like it in the lower pantry despite my random blackouts. It’s the anger, you see. The anger, I tell you.

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