Lion Head Mesa toy soldier's march

muttered, somewhere off to the side: oh thank th' lawd.

here! yapped the tiny voice, guiding the rescuer to where the waters rose high enough to nearly touch the ceiling, and then further in, the cacophonous barks reverberating in the narrow space like a plucked banjo string.

there, the scent of wet death was strong, of bloated bodies only just beginning to rot - 

and on a tall shelf of redstone, finding recluse form the catastrophe, shivered a rotund, sopping shape of dark fur and batty ears hung low.

h-here, mah good man! here...