Deer my behoved Timidy,
Although my heart bursts with fangloratasicness spraying everywhere at the news of your safe return to your bottle-strewn abode, I fear the damage to your vomit streaked and matted hide may be irreparable. Sticks in there... rocks... dead insects. I just fondly remember the days when your coat was clean, lilting softly in the grimy Irish winds of MacGillycuddy Reeks near the Lakes of Killarney. The smell was like the heather smothering a hillside, covered with dew. Now it'd make a billygoat retch.
But hey, you could always do the Brittany thing.
You know I'll be there. No chance of you getting Covid-19 slobbering that high test whisky around your gob, like hand sanitizer on steriods. Then I can swig the backwash after you pass out, safely.
Until we meet in Dublin again, underneath the misty streetlights, on the streets, upon which you walk.
All the pompatus of love,
SydneyB