A surreal feel had taken hold of Caspa's life. She was called a Duchess, but she'd really only been a soldier. She had returned home, only to travel back the same way on paws still aching from the arduous day of the attack. And now, well the night before to be precise, she had noticed the moon and realised it was almost time for her to make yet another journey. So this morning, she had woken with good intentions to do something useful, mundane and sedate, to make a change. She was going gardening.
The dog pushed open the door with a liveliness not felt for some time, emerging into a cool November landscape. The trees were turning russet, the herbaceous areas of the hotel grounds dying back and turning brown and shrivelled. Caspa knew better than to look at this with dismay or disappointment. The plants were mostly still ripe if you knew how to handle them. She hadn't planted much herself. Some of it must have been sprouted by other canines, some left over from the humans - the tougher perennials. The only thing she'd contributed were the poppies, around the edges of the pathways and the walls where there was less overgrowth. The flowers were long since withered, even the last few flagbearing blooms, but in their place were the round husks. Caspa snapped one off and shook it so the tiny black seeds rattled. It was surprising how many seeds they contained, and she'd learnt how nutritious they were, especially for livening up dried or lean fare. With imagination, food could be found in the strangest of places. Even if it didn't come to necessity, they added a good flavour; and any left over would be replanted to provide the pack with painkillers.
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