Going back to work after the holidays is never fun. I spent most of the first week back wandering around like a confused mole who had just emerged from a hole deep in the ground, blinking with confusion and trying to understand what the Common Agricultural Policy was again. But one thing that always cheers me up is spending time around animals, specifically dogs. I thought that I would try to alleviate the perennial January blues by doing a reportage about an animal sanctuary in Nantes. Pictures on their website promised puppies. I was very excited. I love dogs more than almost anything. I used to have a large ring-binder which contained a file on every dog breed when I was little. I was able to name any kind of dog from some distance, be it a Bichon Frise or a Xoloitzcuintle (a Mexican hairless dog, obviously). It was going to be great.
I felt my first twinges of suspicion as I approached the address of the sanctuary. It looked very small. More like a pet shop than a delightful dog-land. Indeed, upon entering the shop I was almost struck down by an overpowering odor. First came the smell, then the sound. Of mewing. Or miaulement. I dislike cats almost as much as I like dogs. I'm sorry to any feline-philes out there, but I just don't trust them. They are mean and untrustworthy. I managed to get through the interview by avoiding eye contact with the cruel creatures, whose glare I could feel upon me. One of the sanctuary volunteers, a kinder and hardier woman than I, asked me if I would like to hold one of the cats. I politely declined and left as fast as my legs could carry me.
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