Barnaby didn't care. He continued his , eyes gleaming with the misplaced confidence of the truly absurd. It wasn't until a large, friendly Golden Retriever wandered over and began to drivel —literally—onto Barnaby’s shiny leather boots that he finally stopped talking.
"That is complete and utter ," muttered a woman at the next table, not looking up from her book. "Total balderdash ." drivel
Looking down at the gooey mess on his shoes, Barnaby paused. He blinked, sighed, and tucked his journal away. Barnaby didn't care
Barnaby Pringle was a man of many words, though few of them made any sense. He sat at the corner of the local café every morning, nursing a cold espresso and scribbling furiously into a leather-bound journal. To the casual observer, he looked like a visionary poet; to his neighbors, he was the neighborhood source of . "That is complete and utter ," muttered a