May 24
My friends are my estate. – Emily Dickinson
Ducky groaned as he chased Contessa back into his house. Why did she always find it amusing to run outside when he tried to lock up for the night?
He loved his house; he had lived there for many years. His mother adored the place too, even if she could no longer get up the stairs. It was familiar, friendly and cozy. He couldn't imagine living anywhere else.
He had purchased it when he had first arrived in America, and it had been his base while he worked out how to get by in an unfamiliar yet strangely similar word. He couldn't dream of selling the place, not after all this time.
It was filled to the brim with objects from his travels, as well as gifts from his friends. It truly was where he considered his home to be.
Contessa made another dash for the door and he was forced to follow her out. Damn dog. Wily and resourceful. He sometimes wondered whether Contessa was a dog version of his mother. If he wasn't returning Contessa to the great indoors, he was doing the same to his mother.
Why did he have so many dogs anyway? Most of them were his mother's, but he was the one who looked after them. At least he had managed to persuade her that they didn't need any more for the moment.
Finally, he managed to chase Contessa inside before he locked the door.
"Donald?" came a familiar voice. "Why are you still up?"
"Go back to sleep, Mother," he ordered. He frowned at Contessa. "Do you two gang up on me on purpose?" he inquired.