The Fisherman

The oarsman was a dog, although at the time I didn’t think this was unusual. Nor did I find it unusual that the dog was headless. What I did find unusual was that the dog’s head, which was on the boat’s deck, next to the dog, asked me for my ticket.

I fumbled around in my pocket and produced a rather wet ticket, no doubt wet from the lake, and handed it to the oarsdog. His paw had no trouble curling around the sodden paper, which he held at a comfortable reading distance from the keen eyes of his decapitated head.

“Fishing. One,” said the dog’s head, satisfied at the authenticity of my ticket. “Climb aboard.”

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