“It’s not you, it’s me”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“What? No, quite the opposite”

“Then what do you mean it’s not me, it’s you”

“This university admission letter. It’s not yours, it’s mine”

“But”

“Yes. I’m coming with you”

“It’s not you. It’s us”

He was headed nowhere in particular, but getting there in a very specific manner. Whenever a path showed itself, he treaded; be it by plane, boat or foot. Or, as in this case, bus.

The rain trailed down the window as the landscape – the mostest coastline countryside he had ever seen – passed by, one bump at a time. He idly wondered how far it was left to go to wherever, when suddenly the bus stopped at what seemed to be the end of everything, with the driver announcing:

“Swanage, end of the line, everyone hop off, if you please”

It was a sound that approached from the distance. It could be heard long before its source could be seen, and boy could it be heard. It was not quite a gallop, but the word was not entirely wrong; all the elements were there, kathumping at the speed deemed necessary for the plot. Usually, the sound ended with another sound taking its place, a less commanding but equally distinct noise:

“Who’s a good boy? Yes you are, yes you are”

And, of course, the unmistakable accompanying scritch of a voluminous joyous canine belly rub.