Poor little Mulva was having a rough time when I met up with her on the train. It was obvious that she was a hungarian vizsla/auburn lab mix, but what wasn’t obvious were the wicked fiends plaguing her nightmares. As I sat there taking pictures of her as she dreamed, albeit poorly, she was clearly saying something between mumbling yelps and kicking her legs, and it went something like this: “grr… grr NINETYnine grr… grr yipe oneHUNDREDgrr … and four… hfrmph … grr …onehundredTHIRTYIPE!” waking herself up and scaring me into a new pair of underpants. I hope to holy hell that whatever she was dreaming of, whatever hell-born mutant bent on turning the souls of good people into poor, pathetic, charred crusts of their former selves, never becomes a reality.
