Yesterday, my new printer came, and although it's about the same size as the previous one, it's got the trays and things arranged differently. This meant that I had to do a little shifting of things in that section of my office, which precipitated my checking the last (one can always hope) of the 3.5 inch floppy disks I still have to make sure I have everything off them.Found a few things that had not been previously backed up, including a nearly finished essay about when Chips was a puppy. He was such a special dog, I'm really glad I didn't lose this piece of writing. Here's a sample:
At two weeks of age, puppies really do look like their plush counterparts, the Pound Puppies." He was a fat little ball with legs splayed out sideways, and a stub of a tail that oscillated allegro. His nose was flat and wrinkled. But his color was fascinating. You could never say that he was white, because he wasn't. You could certainly never say that he was yellow; that wasn't right either. The closest way to describe it would be to imagine swirling a little bit of coffee into a cup of milk until it was almost, but not quite, mixed. When the light hit his fur, though, he shone, like the color of fresh-split wood chips in the sunshine. His ears were short, his eyes were dark buttons, and he had one smudge of brown from his nose to his chin, as if he had just tried to lick a chocolate pudding pop, and missed. Instead, he licked my face. I knew I was hooked.
