'always 'round this time, aren't you,' the voice says. 'should jus' give you a name.'
the dog has a name. when he first arrived in sydney, two years ago, he'd constantly tell men and women who stumbled out of the three wise monkeys's pub in the early hours of the morning: he would sit on the sidewalk and hold his head proudly, and speak. but his audience would either scream in drunken laughter or throw up in the gutter, so now he says nothing.
but if he was asked instead of being given an apple, he'd say that his name was winston.
