We locked the car and then took a good look around. Here
we were at twelve-thousand five hundred feet, stepping
out onto the gravel, a small pullout, a minimalist
parking lot, if you could call it that.
There was virtually nothing here but small alpine plants
and lots and lots of rocks. It looked like the Scottish
Highlands, but that place was on the other side of the
The air was cool, and the sky- what parts of it that we
could see through the heavy clouds- was a perfect and
flawless cobalt blue. There were no birds, because there
were no trees up here.
had never taken any one of my student to this place
before, so I knew Bobby was in for an extraordinary
experience, although I could not predict what that would
be. This place was mystery personified.
We were very nearly completely removed from our every
day life. We were so very far from the energies and
influences that effectively contaminate the
consciousness of everyone who is in the middle of that
madness we call “civilization”.
Remarkably, we were barely an hour’s drive from the
metropolitan area that we lived in. We looked east, and
we could see the sprawling city far, far below us
through a humid haze, as if we were looking down on
earth from outer space, a gaseous cloud of cosmic vapor
between us and the rest of the universe.
“This is amazing,” Bobby said. “This is like another
And we hadn’t even walked away from the car yet.
went around to the hatchback and opened it.
“Take a Wand,” I said. “Do you want the cane or the
Bobby looked up. “Hmmm. Looks like it might rain. I’ll
take the umbrella.”
“Good choice,” I said as I handed him this unusual and
rare wangee handled tool. This was among my favorite
Wands, and I was certain he would pick up something good
with it, especially up here. The signals were
exceptionally clear in this area and I was certain it
would afford him access to information that he would
never be able to get otherwise.
That the umbrella might keep him dry if necessary was
almost entirely beside the point.
took the Chinese Sword Cane for myself. I was actually
relieved, because I frankly didn’t think he had enough
experience to use it yet. He was still pretty green and
he might end up putting a hole in his foot or worse,
even though the sword was for the moment safely sheathed
inside the barrel of the cane.
The whole purpose of our expedition was to cement in
Bobby’s mind the experience for himself- that he was
surrounded by unusual tools, tools that everyone else
took for granted as being nothing special at all.
It was my hope that he would at last see that these very
tools could open doors for him, that these tools could
launch him far from his common experience into other
worlds that otherwise only seemed a dream. It was my
hope that the two Wands we had brought with us would
reveal their potential up here in a manner that he could
no longer deny as nothing more than my fertile
Nearly everyone else on the planet thought that Wands
were nothing more than make believe. Nearly everyone
else on the planet thought I was out of my mind when I
talked of such things.
We removed our things from the back of the car and I
shut the hatchback.
pulled my backpack on and began to walk on the almost
imperceptible dirt trail that wound away from the car
park towards the spine of the peak that lay in the short
distance in front of us, perhaps an eighth of a mile up
“Follow me, the best is ahead of us. You haven’t seen
anything yet,” I suggested.
Suddenly something caught the toe of my foot. “ACK!!”
Not six feet from the car I stubbed my toe on a rock
that was jutting out from the trail and I barely kept my
balance. “Ooo, ouch!!” I stopped and rubbed my toe
grimacing, wobbling on the on the un-stubbed leg.
“Hahah!” Bobby laughed. “Oh man, it can’t get any better
than that! How long have you been giving these guided
tours? Hahahha!... OWWUUPP!!!” Bobby was so busy
laughing at me he stumbled on the very same rock
himself, did a jumbled and twisted clown ballet
pirouette, and then fell flat with a big thump on his
“Hahaha!” Now it was my turn to chuckle, and my sore toe
completely stopped hurting.
“Shuddup…” he said, embarrassed as he pushed himself up
and dusted off his pants.
“People who live in housed glasses shouldn’t stow
thrones,” I commented.
“What?” Bobby said as he picked a couple pieces of
imbedded gravel out of his palms.
“Forget it, “ I smiled. “You okay?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Niles.”
was more than three times the age of my young teenage
guitar student, my Traveling protégé. I had been to this
place many dozens of times over the preceding decade. I
knew the landscape as well as my own urban back yard.
But the place still retained secrets from me, even in
the many spots that I was more than intimately familiar
with. I never tired of exploring every nook and cranny
up on this mountain.
There was no sound at all. We had driven up the long
winding road off the main two-laned highway for several
miles and had not seen another single vehicle of any
type. Although the road commonly had cars traveling this
scenic vista during the weekend, I had purposefully
chosen a weekday for this trip.
We certainly would not run into anyone off the road and
where we were going, on the edge of the rocky cliffs
where we were headed. We might see a pica, or a crow,
but I expected few other moving creatures save a bug
here or there.
We had walked several hundred yards from the car and
quite a vertical distance in elevation higher up. Our
vehicle now looked like a matchbox sized toy car a
couple far below us.
We zig-zagged the most crooked indirect path winding
higher and higher, between boulders ever increasing in
size. The wildflowers were at their peak and surrounded
“Look at this!” Bobby exclaimed with surprise. “These
flowers, this is incredible! They’re huge, they’re
turned around and looked at him slightly puzzled. “Huh?”
I didn’t understand. They were just regular wildflowers.
Bobby held up a picked purple stem in right in front of
his one opened eye, blocking his vision. “Niles, look!
This flower is actually bigger than your car!”
smiled for a second, then understood the joke. “Hey!
You’re not supposed to pick the flowers up here. It’s a
reserve.” I frowned slightly and shook my head in
“Oh, sorry.” Bobby knelt down and made like he was
trying to replant the flower back in the ground. He was
mocking me, in a good natured way, as was his habit. It
was actually absurdly funny.
“Forget it. Just don’t pick any more. If everybody who
came up here picked one flower, in ten thousand years
there wouldn’t be any left,” I lectured. “And don’t let
the rangers catch you.”
The reality was, however, it actually was prohibited to
pick anything up in this wilderness. Tourists had
already created significant damage to the ancient forest
that lay a half mile downhill from where we walked.
This place contained some of the oldest trees on the
entire planet, Bristlecone Pines, the oldest living
things on earth. We walked a mere quarter mile above
them, and could see the ghost like angled dark branches
of this enchanted forest peeking through the ground fog
below us. Any moment I expected to see goblins run out
from behind one of the nearby truck sized boulders we
passed, and dash off into the dark woods below.
Before the area was protected by law, tourists had
regularly picked up and taken away gorgeous pieces of
ancient dead wood that was a irreplaceable part of this
natural environment. Close to the road itself where
people drove to access this area, the ground was nearly
as bare as a beach.
But up where we were hiking the story was different.
Although at this spot, we were above tree line itself
which we could see several hundred feet below us. At the
place where the forest came close up the hill nearer to
where we were, it was too far for lazy flat-landers who
had little respect for this place to hike. This further
uphill end of the enchanted forest remained pristine and
whole and unspoiled- and unpicked.
There was an incredible abundance of wild flowers
everywhere. There were Purple Sparklers that looked like
violet fireworks shooting off of a green rocket trail,
with gold bursts in the center of each brilliant
blossom. There were snow stars hugging the ground, no
more than a quarter inch across each, as delicate as
fairy footprints. There were football field sized
patches of Indian Paintbrush here and there, in an
infinite variety of subtle shades of ruby, scarlet, and
orange. And then there were the Giant Pluto Heads, big
green round balls of spikes that truly looked like they
belonged at the bottom of an extraterrestrial ocean.
It was impossible not to stare at our feet as we climbed
higher and higher towards the crest of the peak in front
of us, as the ground was an unbelievably psychedelic and
detailed landscape of multi-colored pebbles, plants, and
Bobby came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.
“This is like being stoned,” he remarked. “And all I had
for lunch was peanut butter.”
smiled, but didn’t say anything. I knew exactly what he
was talking about.
In the city, you would not think twice about such
patterns under your feet. You would think such simple
things as small plants and stones were entirely
unremarkable. But up here in this rarified environment,
something instantly clicked in your brain: You became
super sensitive to subtle variations of texture and
color that struck you as entirely magnificent. It could
be compared to taking a powerful shamanic stimulant or
magical herb, but here, the drug was this special place
We began to reach the top of one crest and had long lost
sight of the parking area. As we rounded a small
outcropping we stopped and took in a view that was
nothing short of breathtaking, literally.
“Hold on a minute,” Bobby said. “I’m outta breath!” He
bent down with his hands on his knees.
“Wimp,” I said. “I’m a Capricorn, a mountain goat. What
are you, a Pisces?”
“Shut up. I’m a Capricorn too, January 7th.
I’m just not used to this.”
“Too much pasta.” I retorted. I hadn’t named him Bobby
Spaghetti for nothing.
“You’re suppose to carb up when you go on a hike, don’t
you know,” Bobby replied.
chucked to myself. Here was a young teenager, and he was
having trouble keeping up with me, an old fart. Of
course, I didn’t dare mention that my thighs were
already aching from the very steep leg of the trail we
had just come up. I was actually glad he wanted to rest.
“Look at that,” I pointed out the range of snowcapped
razor sharp peaks immediately across the valley to the
Bobby straightened up and turned around to look. “Oh my
god,” he said nearly under his breath. “That’s
We were looking at not one, but several over
fourteen-thousand peaks all within eyeshot from this
vantage point. The very peak of Mt. Evans was just mere
miles from where we stood. Gray and Torries’ twin
fourteeners were a short distance west. Long’s peak was
up range perhaps twenty five miles. And then Pike’s Peak
was a relatively far fifty miles sound of where we
stood. But we could see the all with an easy twist of
“Let’s keep going, there’s a power spot just over
there,” I suggested and pointed a short distance away.
We hiked down a bit from this one high spot, hopping
from the top of one flat boulder to the next, but still
staying more or less on the crest of the spine of this
peak we were exploring. To our immediate right,
eastward, the peak dropped sharply down, forming a wall
of granite bluffs that ended a couple hundred feet below
us leading to the dense Bristlecone forest. To our left,
the side of the mountain we traversed was a more or less
gradual descent that eventually led to a long deep
valley. We made our way along this side of the peak,
continually working our way higher and higher.
After another ten minutes of hiking up and down on this
rocky roller coaster, we came to an unexpectedly flat
area just below the edge of the ridge.
“This is it,” I said as I took off my back pack and sat
down on the ground to get out a bottle of water. “You
handed Bobby the aluminum water bottle after taking a
good long swig myself.
“Shortstop,” he said.
smiled. I had heard my father say that to me when I was
a kid, and used the salt before passing it on. I
wondered if my father’s spirit was following us that
Bobby walked over to a solid wall of rock that sat on
one side of this flat area. “Wow, I didn’t expect this
up here,” he said as he ran his hand against the wall.
It was as if we had suddenly stumbled upon a big outdoor
movie screen that had been carved out of the side of the
mountain. I had been to this place many times, but for
Bobby, it must have been quite something to encounter
for the first time.
“This is, awesome,” he said examining the twenty foot
vertical wall of rock. Directly in front of the wall was
a living room size of flat ground, big enough to hold a
modest wedding reception or bar mitzvah.
There was a small ledge about three feet off the ground
at the base of this wall. I watched carefully as Bobby
contemplated the spot with his back towards me. He threw
his own backpack and the umbrella on the ground. Then he
spotted the ledge and placed one foot on it, as if to
test that it was not loose rock.
It was as if instinct took over, and he dug his
fingernails into the rock face and then hoisted himself
wholly onto the lip. He flattened himself against the
wall, hugging it, with his ear to it as if he was
listening to something deep inside the earth.
Looking at him, flat against this rock cliff, it made
the most incongruous sight. Here he was standing
vertically against this nearly perfectly flat area of
rock, a wall perhaps twenty five feet across and twenty
feet high, and yet from my vantage point, it looked
exactly as if he were lying down on a granite bed,
horizontally. It was a remarkable illusion.
He closed his eyes.
There was no sound at all, no wind, no birds, nothing.
And then we heard in the distance, from the direction of
from the forest of twisted fifteen-hundred year old pine
trees far below us, as sound as sudden as a crack of
thunder piercing the clouds high above us, a sound that
sent a bolt of pure electrical shock up our spines.
Bobby was catapulted off the wall no different than if
the wall itself had suddenly come to life and knocked
him off with the force of a heavy weight boxer.
We had both heard the unmistakable sustained sound of a
woman screaming at the top of her lungs, as if she was
seconds away from her own murder.
“Get up!” I yelled, as I stood up my cane in my hand
held out at arm length.” Grab your Wand! Now!”
met Frank Zappa one Denver summer night in 1973. My high
school buddy Scott Lindenbaum and I snuck into the KFML
radio station office building before one of Frank’s
concerts while he was giving a pre-concert interview.
Frank was polite and cordial, and he gave me this single
bit of advice along with his ball point pen autograph on
the outside of my electric utility bill envelope, the
only scrap of paper I had at hand at the moment:
“Remember you are employed, and working for the muse.”
My name is Niles Abercrumby.
I’ve taught over thirty thousand music lessons in my
life to an uncounted number of pupils, with a few
students thrown in. Very few.
I’ve taught an even select fewer of those to use Wands.
am a university trained musician, with a teaching
certificate in Music Education from the state of
Colorado, United States of America, Earth, Solar System,
Milky Way Galaxy, Universe 14RCB Sector 42, Reality
Phase 9. I earned this certificate many, many years ago.
I’ve long outgrown it, and I let it expire and die of
natural causes five short years after it arrived in my
mail box. It came in a big white envelope packed along
with my diploma as well as an application for car
My teaching certificate and college diploma were mailed
to me since I had not received such documents
ceremoniously in person with a handshake, wearing the
traditional cap and gown. Nor had I less ceremoniously
obtained it either, as conceivably wearing mere plain
jeans and sneakers with holes in each, slid through the
opening of a bullet proof teller window inside the
administration office building by a smiling cherubic
clerk with a Hispanic surname.
opted for the much more informal US Postal Mail
delivery. Less walking for me, same end result without
all the pomp and pageantry. I’m not big on ceremony.
In college I learned how to play every band instrument
John Phillips Sousa wrote an arrangement for. I also as
learned how to toot and pluck on every instrument used
in a modern day symphonic orchestra, those instruments
that I already had not taught myself to play out of
curiosity growing up. I was always very interested in
music and doing things with my hands, but I was never
interested in institutions or tradition per se.
In is no coincidence that the same dexterity applied to
instruments helps in the channeling of energy through an
assortment of Wands. However, there is presently no
college course in Wands, nor is there any diploma
associated with this skill. I earned my extra curricular
skill without documentation or accreditation. I learned
the How-To of Wands directly from studying the only real
source of literature I know of on the subject, and from
trial and error.
As I’ve come to learn, Wand technique greatly relies on
underlying Fun-di-Mental principals that I learned from
the one person who was responsible for allowing me to
get my hands on a copy of such a textbook on the subject
of Wands. This person, almost certainly a Wand
practitioner himself during his life, was considered by
the general public as wildly eccentric at the very least
if not outright out of his mind.
Indeed, my first direct knowledge of Wands and how they
work came as a result of spending an awful lot of time
with a fellow that most people thought was a crazy old
guy living in a shack up in the mountains.
High up in a remote forest near the Colorado Continental
Divide lived and worked the founder and director of The
Dormant Brain Research and Development Laboratory,
D.A.T. Stingo, or as we called him, DaStingo, or even
I’ve always found that a person’s name reveals something
about their character, and this seems to be the case
with everyone that’s played a significant role in this
In his case, Stingo was a tough professor and teacher.
He didn’t mess around. He could give you the most
powerful injection of truth and wisdom of anyone I ever
met, a huge shot of inspiration and energy. But he also
had a sharp bite if you made the fatal mistake of taking
him for a fool. You could get stung badly, and you
Up until now, his involvement with Wands has remained a
complete secret to nearly every one of the students and
subjects who passed through the stone gate to this
pristine wilderness facility. In all respects it was
already a place off the most un-beaten track. For him to
further admit to utilizing Wands would have pushed his
already teetering reputation even further off center and
completely off the precipice of logical acceptance.
Had Stingo revealed his interested and knowledge, much
less a use of Wands, he would have certainly been
considered a complete lunatic by all, including his most
ardent supporters. Thus, it went unadvertised to his
The main work of Stingo’s behavior lab was teaching
people the ins and outs of how their mind motor worked,
learned in the atmosphere of nature unspoiled.
You see, Stingo wanted to save the world, one person at
He felt that the world was a mess because most people
had a mess of a brain. Multiply a messy brain by
billions of brain owners, and you get a messy and doomed
If you can save one brain, that brain can save another.
“Each one, teach one,” he would say. And that could
become a geometric progression. “Save one soul, and you
save the universe,” an ancient script said.
My self-imposed job was to see if I could save myself
for a start.
If you managed to hear about and to actually find The
Dormant Brain lab and its director-caretaker, you might
sign up for a six-week Brain In Nature Course. You would
camp out for weeks on end, sleep on hard stone covered
ground in your self-made lean to shelter, and at the end
of the summer you would have enough knowledge of how the
human brain works to teach a university crash course on
Then you would go home.
To all of the hundreds of people who found their way to
this back woods institute and completed the course,
brain training would remain their only impression of
what Stingo and his place was all about.
But quite out of view, hidden far off the main trail
proper was a key to tools that would surely land anyone
locked admission into the funny farm if they dared speak
of it in public. It was here where I first learned of
The Book of Wands.
Surely, no other former participants at the brain lab
will confirm what I am about to reveal, mainly because
they weren’t in on this most secretive of Stingo’s
secrets. They all split once they got from him what they
wanted and what they expected to get.
“Once a student pops his frontal lobes,” Stingo often
remarked, “I never seem ‘em again.”
hung around years after everyone else had gone home to
feed their fish. As it turned out, something else turned
up on the end of my line.
During his life Stingo did not want to jeopardize the
rest of his work and his already counter-culture
reputation by even wilder claims now set forth in my own
account here. I can afford such a personal risk as I
already have a steady and permanent income selling
thousands of battery operated pet nail trimmers on eBay
each month under a completely different name.
So let us proceed.
School of Music
And Other Stuff
My Wand exposure and education began as early as I can
remember, although I didn’t realize nor was I told that
I was obtaining such instruction indirectly or otherwise
until far later on. I think more than a few people use
Wands, but clearly very few if any don’t know
consciously what they are doing, but rather do so
Using a Wand as a Wand is almost universally
unadvertised as such. Understandably, claims one would
make of such an activity would lead others to the
perception that one has lost all his marbles.
refused to go to my university graduation, held early
one summer Saturday morning, because I felt that
achieving my higher education had already robbed enough
of my personal time. I had already missed hundreds of
hours of early weekend Bugs Bunny cartoons during my
youth because of Saturday morning religious school that
my parents forced me to attend. Enough was enough
Speaking of religious school, I have never been
particularly interested in religion either, with the
possible exception of Taoism, and that is clearly a
pretty feeble excuse for an institutional belief system,
but about as close to religion as I will ever
voluntarily w ander.
You know what those Taoists say: “The Way is not hard
for those who have no preferences.”
Well now, that’s what I call religion.
When I graduated from college, I immediately took a
position as a substitute teacher in the Denver Public
Schools. This lasted for exactly one semester before I
completely dropped out of classroom teaching. I had
begun drinking a half gallon of coffee a day just to
stay awake in class from the lack of creative
stimulation inside my own head. I drank other potions to
calm me down both on the way home and additionally after
arriving home. My nerves were ritually being fried by
junior high schoolers bouncing off the walls inside the
hallowed and revered walled institution known as School.
Being that necessity is the mother of invention (and
more on those Mothers later), and that my own survival
seemed very necessary to me, I soon learned that I could
make a perfectly comfortable living inventing my own
school, teaching music one person at a time at in-home
private music lessons.
Thus, The Niles Abercrumby School of Music, Art and
Other Stuff helped me to dodge brain atrophy and/or
putting my nervous system at possible fatal risk from
over-exposure to large numbers of wildly enthusiastic
elementary, middle, and high school pupils.
Not that such public school classrooms are filled so
much with students wildly enthusiastic about music, but
more accurately are typically filled with pupils
enthusiastic about being wild.
Speaking of students and pupils, one thing I do remember
from my own middle school training, or at very least I
continue to hallucinate, is that the difference between
a pupil and a student is that a student studies, and a
pupil simply watches.
It is easy to remember the differences between these two
if you remember that a pupil is nothing but a hole that
sucks in light.
The same classroom may be filled with thirty or more
pairs of pupils, but may easily and simultaneously have
zero students in it.
As I’ve said, necessity is the mother of invention, and
so for me, it was necessary to make a living with music
without losing my mind. I do, however, continue to be
accused of already having met that fate. So it goes.
Speaking of mother, when I was in the sixth grade I
earned my first few dollars self-employed walking door
to door in my neighborhood selling my own original
pastel sketches. This was indeed chalk Wands at work
making dollars in this most innocent manner.
shocked my mother- herself a school teacher- when she
found out how I had spent my afternoon mixing adolescent
capitalism with crayons.
My mother is now 84, and she still can’t believe (nor
does she approve) that I actually make my living as a
self-employed artist of any type.
Like I said, I let my teaching certificate expire
because I never again wanted to voluntarily or otherwise
set foot in a band room after an indoor winter and
spring spent trying to wrestle order out of hundreds of
entropy intent adolescent and younger bi-pedal hominids
wielding drums, cymbals, horns, loud reed instruments,
catgut strung boxes, and other “civilized” instruments
continue to get my car insurance through my college,
however, so my college education was not entirely
My mother had tried her best to sculpt me in her own
image as a dedicated public school servant, but it was
ultimately an exercise in futility for her part. My
heart had been guided by another “Mother” throughout my
had grown up listening to the decadent and rebellious
strains of Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention, as
well as giving equal time listening and studying Captain
Beefheart and His Magic Band. These were Dadaists with a
Years after I had fled the public schools, Mom had still
tried to convince me to keep my school teaching
certificate valid and convinced me to enroll in a
teaching certificate renewal program, “You’ll never know
when you’ll want to teach in the schools again!”
temporarily succumbed, and as I sat in the Colorado
Teaching Certificate Renewal Study Seminar held at the
Stapleton Airport Sheridan Hotel Conference Center, my
mind kept drifting back to strains of Zappa compositions
such as, “Who Are The Brain Police?”, and “You’re
Probably Wondering Why I’m Here”.
At the lunch break, sitting in a large cafeteria with a
hundred or so noisy soon to be re-certified re-fried
public servants, I pondered my future in a just emptied
vanilla pudding cup that was part of our collective
lunch break. I wondered how many more pudding cups I
would stare into in how many more noisy lunchroom
cafeterias in the years to come. I took a quick deep
breath and silently made a break for my car out in the
parking lot and forever away from re-certification as if
I were escaping from a penitentiary and a life sentence.
I never looked back.
My resourcefulness in creating a career for myself as a
private music teacher has had many distinct advantages
over being employed by the state, not the least of which
is that I get to stay home all day long and spend
quality time with my dogs, Erfie and Chloe, and practice
with my sticks, Wands, and other useful tools of Travel.
Erfie and Chloe are sleeping next to me on the couch
right now as I write this.
Yes indeed, you are now ingesting the thoughts of a
person who while transcribing this, at his particular
longitude, latitude, and other dimensions and
coordinates of time, space, and abstract thought, is
sitting on a comfy three cushioned sofa with
semi-abstract southwestern Native American inspired
geometrical designs imprinted on the fabric covering.
Self-determination also allows this person to type at
his own whim, day or night, with nary a care of waking
up in time to join the mad rat race at seven A.M.
Next to him are two snoring, dog dreaming twin sibling
West Highland White Terriers, each in their own, or
perhaps intersecting other worldly dog dreamy universes.
They never dropped out of the rat race because they
never joined it to begin with.
They have, contrary, chased smaller cute mice across the
kitchen floor, fortunately because my home has largely
been rat free, albeit not free of their smaller cousins.
hesitate to inform them that they have never caught a
take that back.
One of them had actually deposited a big fat gray mouse
at the foot of my bed a couple of months ago. That’s
probably why this particular rodent got caught in the
first place- too chubby to run away fast enough.
Anyway, Erfie is the big brother, Chloe the little
As I engage in interspecies telecommunication, CLICKING
FORWARD and ON, I perceive the internal and non-corporal
activities inside these somewhat smaller canine
Erfie, dreaming of a giant bowl, a white ceramic bowl
decorated with colorful yellow flowers and blueberry and
strawberry designs. It overflows with endless crunchy
peanut butter and molasses doggy cookies.
Crunch crunch crunch.
Chloe, running through a wonderfully green hilly meadow,
sun shining, birds twerping, butterflies dancing, clouds
drifting, dandelion puffs riding on the wind. She runs
to the top of the hill, wagging her tail- and at the top
of a hill she comes upon a giant bowl of endless crunchy
peanut butter and molasses doggy cookies.
Crunch crunch crunch.
have no doubt at all who is the more intelligent of
creatures, between humans and canines.
Despite the greater relative volume of the human brain,
I humbly bow at the simple wisdom and generosity of my
furry family members. Less is far more.
THE FULL BOOK!