Ferinand is always the first to scoff at what he calls, if he were feeling kind, ignorant idealism. Or what he sometimes calls, more disparagingly, mere stupidity. A terrier who thinks she will be a villain-fighting heroine. A collie who believes he can heal the world with love and peace. A spaniel who thinks she will leave her mark on the history books. Such romantic hopes for the future belong to the realm of the very young, the infuriatingly foolish, or the deeply mad. And he has little patience for any of these.
He sees the world as it is, plain and simple. Stark in its insoluble problems and unfurnished with rose-tinted glass windows. If he is pessimistic, it is because the world offers nothing to be optimistic about. If he is cynical, it is because the world has offered one too many disappointments.
And so when he meets these young idealistic pups - the terrier with dreams of fighting evil, or the collie who believes in the power of love - he brings them down to reality, with his usual dry sarcasm. Oh, you want to battle with villains? What will you do? Nip at their ankles and scare them with your high-pitched yapping? And you, you want to leave a mark on history? Go, mark the tree there. That's the biggest mark you'll ever leave.
It would be easy, in light of his skeptical and sardonic nature, for him to be hated. Yet, those who know him well would paint a different picture.
They whisper that he likes to find four-leaf clovers and secretly plant them in puppies' beds, for them to discover upon waking and spend the rest of the week believing in luck and magic. They say that he hand-makes plushies, and anonymously gifts these to the dogs who have no friends, who are lonely, who are outcasts. They tell of instances when he, unbeknownst to anyone, drops a spare coin in a needy dog's wallet, so that they can find spare cash when they are stretched, without the humiliation of begging.
And they say that, beneath his scoffs and jeers and jibes, his gloom and his bleakness, there is something else entirely. It is hard to describe it - some kind of light, bright and buoyant. Made of three-fifths magic and two-fifths luck. And in the form, perhaps, of a clover.
He sees the world as it is, plain and simple. Stark in its insoluble problems and unfurnished with rose-tinted glass windows. If he is pessimistic, it is because the world offers nothing to be optimistic about. If he is cynical, it is because the world has offered one too many disappointments.
And so when he meets these young idealistic pups - the terrier with dreams of fighting evil, or the collie who believes in the power of love - he brings them down to reality, with his usual dry sarcasm. Oh, you want to battle with villains? What will you do? Nip at their ankles and scare them with your high-pitched yapping? And you, you want to leave a mark on history? Go, mark the tree there. That's the biggest mark you'll ever leave.
It would be easy, in light of his skeptical and sardonic nature, for him to be hated. Yet, those who know him well would paint a different picture.
They whisper that he likes to find four-leaf clovers and secretly plant them in puppies' beds, for them to discover upon waking and spend the rest of the week believing in luck and magic. They say that he hand-makes plushies, and anonymously gifts these to the dogs who have no friends, who are lonely, who are outcasts. They tell of instances when he, unbeknownst to anyone, drops a spare coin in a needy dog's wallet, so that they can find spare cash when they are stretched, without the humiliation of begging.
And they say that, beneath his scoffs and jeers and jibes, his gloom and his bleakness, there is something else entirely. It is hard to describe it - some kind of light, bright and buoyant. Made of three-fifths magic and two-fifths luck. And in the form, perhaps, of a clover.
Bio by Tar #1249086
Rules
Reselling: Yes
Trading: Yes
Breeding: Yes
Reselling: Yes
Trading: Yes
Breeding: Yes