Chips was despondent - his coat itched terribly like the twig woven tunics of the penitent monks - his was a misery of crawling fleas and canine eczema.
The diet at the lab was not at all what he was used to, and the fumes from the cleaning agents there were excessive. Basically he was suffering ‘lab coat’.
He often sat mournfully at the feet of Francesco, whose sympathetic nerves twinged in unison with his beloved companion.
Both were captains of non-conversation. These mute spirits would telepathically converse, one to another with a constant ease, and over time it had grown to be something of a single-minded dialogue.
- Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances
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