More Nonsense - for anyone who had an invisible dog.

A man’s best frien' and music – Harry's theme.

He was missing the Gunship. Really missing her, lonely as hell. Sitting in the kitchen, in his declining chair: when it was made it was a reclining chair, now it was declining to recline. Pal said he got it for a snip. The Gunship said he got it in a skip.

The telly was on but he couldn't find the Zapper to change the channel from “Spongebob

Square Pants” back to the News, not that he though the truth in the news was any better than Patrick and his perils.

He could take Dog for a walk, if he had one. Probably sensing his mood Cat had cleared off. Chicken and Duck were asleep. But even if they weren't it was no use: his neighbour on the farm would probably charge him for hiring them to go walking.

He sighed, long and noisily. It always worked before she would ask “What's up with you now?” At least it was talk. This time the silence was well: it was silent.

Then he jumped up suddenly. He had just remembered. Ah yes, yes. But where was it? He pulled open the first closet and whistled. “Where are you Boy?” No ! He didn't whistle it: he said it! Another closet another blank. The garden shed? He rushed out towards the garden and flattened his nose, once again, the Patio Door was closed.

Then he remembered. “Under the bed. In the spare room. I hope it's not dead.”

He galloped up the stairs shouting “It's me Boy. Where are you?”

In the dust and fluff under the bed he saw the lead and the collar at the end. Gently he pulled it out. He thought. Oh don't be dead. I know we haven't been feeding you or bringing you for walks. But please don't be dead.

Gently he lifted the stiff lead and the collar on the end staggered up and waved unsteadily above the floor.

“Oh, Boy It's me.” And holding the lead in his left hand: he crouched down and patted Invisible Dog on the head.

“Let's go for a walk Boy. I'll tell you all the latest gossip.”

He was in the garden waiting for Boy to stop relieving himself against the tree. It was going to be a long wait. Boy had been under the bed for a year and a half. Another trinket form the Joke Shop of his past. The Invisible Dog, in his collar on a wired-stiff lead.

“Hurry up Boy. I'm starting to feel pressure myself.”

Then from somewhere in Brassicaville he heard a Banjo being tuned. He checked his pocket. It was there. Tying Boy's lead to the tree, in case he wandered, he went looking for Banjoed and a session.

Banjoed was almost finished tuning her strings, and Pal was knocking his Harmonica against his hand to clear the reeds. Pluck, Pluck. Bang, Bang. Ouch! Pal had forgotten to keep his hand open and was now sitting cross-eyed with his hand in his mouth. Well cross-legged and cross-eyed. Then he fell down.

Not a good start -thought Banjoed looking up at the scream still hanging in the air. The instrument should be jammed in his Gob not his fingers.

Bang. Bang Pal jumped up and began banging his foot up and down on the ground.

“Is that the beat?” asked Banjoed. “No.” answered Pal. “Me foot's asleep.”

Banjoed was tired waiting and started to play.

“Is that the Camptown Races?”

“No” she replied, testily. “Its All the Good Times are Gone.”

“Oh I remember that. The Gunship picked it as the first dance tune at our wedding.” Pal said wistfully, thinking Polly is OK, but Bismark can really keep the bed warm on a cold night.

The last message she left him was starting to fade from his forehead and he had manoeuvred his nose back, more or less, into position. It wasn't exactly in the middle of his face. But it never had been before. He reached up and realised the bang on the Patio Door had probably moved it again.