I was strolling through the garden this morning, as I do most mornings in fact, when a very strange sight caught my eye. Over yonder, under the apple tree, a very worried looking brown pigeon was pacing back and forth, head bobbing frantically, muttering something-or-other to himself.
I ambled over and called out, “Are you alright?”
He stopped pacing and turned toward me.
“Coo. Coooo?” he said.
“Oh, I’m sorry I don’t speak ‘Pigeon English’, only ‘People English’. My name is Bergamot. Are you lost?”
“Cooo!” he exclaimed and withdrew a small telegram from under his wing.
“Is that for me?” I asked, reaching for the letter.
I turned it over in my paws and quickly noticed the exquisite ivory paper, the impeccable handwriting and meticulous placement of the postage stamp. I found myself uttering only one word, “Basil”.
“Cooh,” spoke the pigeon, and his expression changed from high anxiety to sincerest pity.
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