The tents were pitched and posters had been pasted across town. Tomorrow would be the first show and tonight everything should have been in perfect order.
Squeaky, the pig was turning white at the top of the ladder. It wasn’t the 25foot drop; the trouble was the tub of water below. Squeaky had developed a sudden case of aquaphobia.
At the far end, the dancing dogs had drunk too much whiskey and were serenading the yellowing moon.
Beethoven watched the chaos as he pulled handkerchiefs from his hat. He needed to switch jobs. Maybe he should start making music.