Friday, June 17, 2011


Marrianne and Celeste, the two 'elf' girls, came back with a little four year old King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, a silky, little, black and white, big eyed confection named Bunny. She lived with an old 'witchy woman' in an early nineteenth century 'trinity' (narrow, three story townhouse) on a forgotten little mews, tucked away on a  tiny, cobbled lane far from the syncopated fandango of Center City.

The woman apparently knew a bit of the ancient 'this and that,' as those adept in such things say. She could conjure up needed opportunities and 'find' money (or easily saleable gold) as well as other useful commodities. Her place was a tick-tock, mish-mash of old velvet pillows, chintz fabric and porcelain bric-a-brac. Heavy satin curtains banished tresspassing sunbeams. And herbal teas perfumed the air with exotic, muskie delights.

It was said that the dog was a reincarnated spirit, to be exact, the soul of a beloved aunt (the witchy-woman's), dead since the dreaded influenza epidemic of 1918. No one knew the exact age of the canine in question and the little dog wasn't telling. But the small, nickel medallion on her collar was of a type not seen in town since before the Second World War. She was Bunny then and she is Bunny now. Her magical, human mistress was the proud owner of onehundred and seventeen years. She probably would have seen twohundred, but in was the cigarettes and greasy, meat pasties what done her in. Spells can only accomplish so much. And when the practioner in question begins to exhibit bubbles in her think tank, they become even less efficatious.

So they wrapped her in a silk shroud and buried her in an old pirate's chest (jeroboam sized) along a deep, shadowy pathway behind a thicket of granite obolisks, far at the back, in the enchanted woodlands of Laurel Hill Cemetery.

And now we have the dog lodging with us (it's me, wilkravitz) in Chestnut Hill. Edith dotes on her. Calls her a right proper witch's familiar (see, we have something in common, since I am a vampire's familiar). Has she done any sparkly, little miracles yet? I'm not sure. But Annie claims she heard her whispering something to the crows in the back garden.  And the sharp taloned, almost raptors seemed to find it very funny.

Stay in touch. I'll let you know what happens.

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