We’re going to the dogs, and must dress accordingly, so we’re brushing off our cheesecutter caps, and waxing our boots and jackets. We need to exercise, or to exorcise – the edict was unclear – so we dust off both canes and crucifixes, and pack our pockets with mint cake and salt. The precise location of the dogs – no, let’s call them hounds, for that frisson of gothic anticipation – is yet to be determined, but we’ve a pre-Beck map of the London Underground and a portfolio of predictions relating to possible geomorphological futures, and a compass and sextant reputedly salvaged from the Mary Celeste. The hounds themselves are an unknown quantity, but artists’ impressions, based on psychic visions and unreliable witness statements, suggest something akin to either Bolonka or Barghest, the fine distinctions depending on estimates of distance. Some of us hear their voices in our sleep, others while we’re awake, but we all agree that they never bark, speaking instead in plummy RP tones of hard choices and unfortunate unavoidable outcomes. We don leather gloves and wrap scarves around our faces, though we know there will still be cuts and cold. And we of course carry bones and other treats, and biodegradable bags for all the inevitable shit.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor