Head down against the rain, Crichton picked his way delicately from one mound of slick, sodden
earth to the next, trying to avoid the deepest puddles and the frequent heaps of dren.  He was
doing fine until one pile of excrement moved.  

He yelped, bounded to one side, took eight splashing steps in a futile attempt to regain his
balance, and landed on his back in one of the deepest puddles.  

“What the frell was that thing?”  All around him, mounds of poop were scampering in different
directions.  

Perched high and dry on his father’s chest, D’Argo exclaimed happily, “D’annits!!!”


                                                        
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