The Boar Of The Baskervilles

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A tale of the Animal Uprising™. Inspired by real life, honest.

Baskerville Hall – on the outskirts of Dartmoor, January 10th.

MY DEAR HOLMES:

My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to date as to all that has occurred in this most God-forsaken corner of the world.  The longer one stays here the more one realizes that one should always bring a change of socks and, perhaps two hip flasks instead of just one. For, as instructed, I, your faithful friend, biographer and general hanger on living my life vicariously through your exploits, have ventured out onto the moor in search of the Boar of the Baskervilles.

The longer one stays out on the moor looking at the trenches the boar has dug through the landscape, and trying, not always successfully I fear, to avoid stepping in other traces the beast has left behind, the more one realizes that a pair of galoshes would have been a wise investment.

The boar has been uncommonly busy and has trashed large areas apparently searching for truffles. When truffles are in short supply, dachshunds will do as a light snack. But the beast has people who protect him, too. They purposely tried to direct me to Scotland when I asked for directions. Fortunately, I had my faithful map and discovered the plot shortly after I arrived in Glasgow. After returning to the moor, I resumed my search for the elusive boar. I'm out about 30 pounds in petrol, however and could use a bit extra this week.

All this, however, is unimportant to the mission on which you sent me. I can still remember your complete indifference as to whether the local Starbucks made an inferior latte.  Let me, therefore, return to the facts concerning the Boar of the Baskervilles.

All about are the signs of the beast, but I have been unable to find him anywhere. Searching high and low, I have become wet and miserable, and wildly unpopular to the locals who have taken to shaking pitchforks at me whenever they see me. But this sucker is either invisible or doesn't actually exist. I do keep tripping over this hairy, foul smelling dog that has taken to following me everywhere. He has the oddest bark, a sort of snuffling grunt, punctuated by high pitched squeals. I believe that he must be some sort of spaniel. But no giant boars anywhere.

Yours miserably,

Watson

PS – Don't forget the money, the landlady looks rather a lot like the spaniel and has about the same short temper.

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