I take several routes when I walk to work to keep my day from getting boring. That’s why I didn’t notice it right away.

I always take the Tchoupitoulas bus to Canal Street, and from there I walk seven or eight blocks down into the Quarter to Mr. Alice’s Fine Antiques.

Sometimes I walk down Decatur, then other times Royal. I passed a place on Decatur that didn’t even have a name, and I saw a glass table and chairs in the window—covered with dust. I just figured somebody was storing stuff there, but it did seem to me that it was an expensive place to store stuff.  Commercial rentals in the French Quarter are not to be sneezed at—expensive, in other words.

Next time I took Decatur that place looked the same, dirty.  After that, I walked on Royal where the really expensive shops were located. Mr. Alice didn’t sell anything for under two hundred dollars, like plates.

I always wondered where the little jackasses spent their day because we never saw them close to the house.

One day I took a sandwich and a notebook and walked toward the stream. I’ve begun another novel after having writers’ block for several months. I always write the first draft by hand. I started doing that when I lived in Paris.

I cut across the meadow and noticed that the grass was a bit higher than I’d have expected with the little guys out there eating.

When I got close to the stream, I saw the pack all standing together in the shade of the willows. Arnold, a little male let out a bray when he saw me.  It’s nice to be greeted by an animal.

I immediately decided to bring the glass table down here so I could write under a tree.