Snort. snarfle.
It was the best he could do to express his desire to enter his old friend's house - knocking was certainly out of the question, and he tended to feel a bit rude kicking at someone else's door. No, as long as he projected a bit, this should do the trick.
A moment. And then, from inside, the distinctive (and on this day, especially excited) thumping of Spitzy's feet as she pronked her way towards the door. Two seconds more, the door began to open, rigged up to a button on the floor that only needed pressing to allow admittance. Home ownership as a llama came with its own set of challenges, but nothing so far that couldn't be handled with a bit of creativity.
Doug the pug immediately sprang up towards his friend's back with the typical grace and majesty expected of his breed of canine, as she flexed lower to the ground in a wobbly manner, and then the two were nearly at eye level (though unable to face each other). Once mounted, Doug rode with an posture of victory, pride, and dignity, though he felt none of these things in any conscious way; this was just a smart logistical choice so that the two could talk and keep up with each other. A typical arrangement. "Hey Dougereedooo-oo-ooo!" A small uncontainable extra little bounce.
"Hello," with a chuckle. A bit less effusive, perhaps, but then tail-wagging told a different story.
Spitzy bobbed towards the kitchen. Laid out and ready to go were most of the necessary provisions for the professional-grade adventure that the two now prepared to embark upon shortly. Indeed, they had both heard tell of a foreigner-than-foreign land where giant eagles - eagles the size of more than several llamas laying on the ground in eagle configuration - soared through open skies. It was for this place that llama and pug were bound, for the friends had a class presentation due in two weeks on the subject of aviary predators, and perhaps if they could bring one of these fabled birds to school that day, their teacher would be distracted enough to overlook the fact that neither had written their mandatory reports.
And so, all hope rested on the success of this journey.
"Rice krispie treats... 'nilla wafers... kumquats (have you been burglarizing Farmer Maggot's crops again?)... capri suns... yes, we may as well bring every last one of those," Doug rattled off the items as if cross-checking against a mental inventory list. He tugged and tucked each into a pair of saddle bags, and soon the friends were maneuvering them into a position of balance over Spitzy's back. From a small rucksack hung about his waist Doug pulled a pin, the background image of which were a pair of wide bloodshot eyes, and the foreground text which read YAY! Pinning it to the saddle bags, he shrugged and with a hint of defensiveness qualified his action by saying, "I think it's funny." Spitzy hadn't asked.
A few last-minute items made the cut- a small bag of marbles, for passing the time; a few packs of beef jerky; a harmonica, which one of them owned and neither knew how to play in any meaningful way; etc, etc- and within 30 minutes they found themselves standing outside of Spitzy's lighthouse home, surrounded by sounds of ocean and gull, cricket and rock. Wordlessly they set off, pug perched atop of pachyderm.
Spitzy navigated the glorified pile of rocks that lay in a jumble, heaving out of the ocean and bearing the lighthouse she called home, with familiarity and agility. Only once did her feet falter, resulting in a startled *spit* and, from Doug, a sharp fart-toot. The friends sniggled simultaneously, but said nothing, their minds largely preoccupied with what lay ahead. In a few short minutes, she reached the mainland where a breathtaking expanse of grass stretched out for miles with no end in sight, only showing its finiteness in spilling over sheer cliffs that made way to ocean.
Doug settled in on Spitzy's back as she found her stride. The day was clear, the air was slightly warmer than crisp. Faltering every now and again, the pug began reciting a cryptic rhyme, speaking in a manner as if exercising his memory so as not to lose any of the words:
'Neath Bette Manor's bricks
Tiny Grandfather clock ticks;
Behind it, another existence.
The clock at 2
Will let you through
Without any resistance.
Through darkened lair
to find it, there,
Just step into the closet.
Hark! do beware:
The winged guard there
May be your death, or cause it.
The fortunate soul,
Once past first goal,
Best hasten towards the throne.
The gift he shall bring
As fit for a king
Will cease a dying ruler's moans.
Now Traveler, go,
For King shall allow
Peaceful presence in his domain,
And assist in your quest
Royal Guard at your behest
For as long as you remain.
"I'm really impressed that you remember all that."
A tail wag from Doug.
"Well, we know where Bette Manor is. Have you parsed out what some of these lines could mean, or were you too busy memorizing?" Spitzy grinned a tiny impudent grin.
Indignant snarfle. "The Manor is easy, yes. Detective Bette and his long family history of Detectives as masters of the house, and all that. The bit about the grandfather clock is complete nonsense of course; it must be a riddle, because tiny grandfather clocks don't exist. Seems pointless to look too far past that because until we figure out the clock conundrum, we're nowhere." Doug yanked a Fruit Rollup out of one of the saddle bags and tore into it as he spoke.
"My best guess is that the line refers to a small-sized Grandfather clock, essentially as written. If they don't exist, they should! How incredibly hip would I look walking around town with a tiny Grandfather clock tied around my neck?"
"You would look... so... hip. Incredibly hip, Spitzy."
The llama spasmed her back a bit, to playfully throw the dog off of his balance. Noontime and the afternoon passed in similar fashion, with the llama trotting along with her pug pal perched alertly on her back, banter flying every which way. Their path took them through beautiful but largely featureless terrain, where they encountered other travelers only on a handful of occasions. Afternoon faded to evening, and the pair set their sights on the pursuit of dinner. Glen Illyan wasn't far ahead. Soon there would be hot soup and crusty bread aplenty.
High overhead, the mechanical hummingbird drone that had been trailing llama and pug for the entire day veered suddenly and noiselessly away from their course.
