It's a Duncacentric world. Seems everywhere we walk there are places that the boy just lays claim to.
Like the tree just outside the gates. It's covered in ants and only occasionally yields a squirrel, but he could stand here for days.
Or Duncan's Mound at the park, where he roots around, smelling God only know what.
Or Duncan's Glen, the natural bowl at the corner of the property where he accidentally taught himself to fly this afternoon.
No matter where we take him, though, he's the King of the Hill.
It didn't bother him at all that it was our first cold day of the season, or that the grass was wet, or that the leaves he was rolling in kept getting tangled in his tail and coat, after all, that's what he keeps me around for.