Back from Prague

I have returned from Prague with much to tell, my long-waiting flock. My hunt for Blue Bull had its share of ups and down, successes and failures, triumphs and frustrations. And, as is so often the case for a canine with aspirations of world domination, lingering unfinished business. But enough of this scene-setting. Without further ado, let me tell you about my search for Blue Bull in the Czech Republic.

I arrived in the afternoon, exhausted from a grueling overnight flight and a four-hour layover in London. After finding my hotel on the steeply sloping Nerudova Street in Prague's Mala Strana (Little Quarter) area, I promptly fell asleep. I awoke at midnight, refreshed and ready to tackle the challenges of this strange, vowel-deprived land. Setting out on foot, I put my nose to the cobblestones in an effort to detect a hint of the fuzzy infidel who had tried to destroy the ministry that I have so painstakingly assembled. After crossing the Charles Bridge into Old Town, I followed the crowds of humans toward Old Town Square and then on to the seedy (at least at 1 a.m.) sidewalks of Wenceslas Square. No sign of Blue Bull. Though my haphazard late-night sniffing bore no fruit, I knew there would be more time. Eager to exit the den of debaucherous infidels on Wenceslas Square, I strode back to my apartment and tried to sleep through the night.

Over the next few days, I would meet with many pre-arranged contacts, including a onetime KGB bureau chief, an imam at a local mosque and former President Vaclav Havel. I scoured the Vltava River for signs of Blue Bull, meeting with some distant relatives of my colleague Mallard. They offered some leads on the Blue Satan's whereabouts, but nothing concrete. I searched high and low, climbing the medieval Powder Tower and wandering the cty's endless labyrinth of narrow alleyways. I searched in modest gift shops and extravagant palaces.

Finally, a glimmer of hope took the sting out of my aching paws. As I pursued Blue Bull's scent in the shadows of Mala Strana, a low voice called my name. "Pssst," it whispered. "Ayatollah, it is you, isn't it?" I turned to find a local marionette shop. And peering out from the doorway was a steely stare I will not soon forget.

"Ayatollah Mugsy, my liege. I am so glad you are here at last. The prophets spoke of your arrival. You are here to find the Evil One who seeks to return this nation to the communist rule that sapped us of our will and our freedoms for four long decades. I believe I can be of service to you."

Though I want to tell you more about this old sorcerer's message, my flock, my travels have left me weary. As my eyelids grow heavy and my tail begins to droop, it is becoming apparent to me. This is a tale that will have to wait until a later date.

To be continued ...