One autumn evening found Sailor sleeping on the dock, watching the fishing boats start to come in and be moored, then unloaded of the days catch. With the boats also came a very real fog that was steadily blanketing the wharf. It had the immediate effect of making the pleasant, warm evening suddenly chilly and damp. The fog seemed oppressive and heavy, like a hand coming out of nowhere to snatch all things in its path. Sailor abandoned the small enclosure he was resting in and headed towards the town square, he desperately wanted to find a safe place that would shelter him from the cold and penetrating fingers of the white/grey cloud that had descended over the harbour; it now threatened to engulf the village as well. It felt like his paws were made of lead and couldn't move fast enough over the breakaway and down the wet cobblestone road into town. Had the fog found him at last? Was it chasing him! Driving him toward some unknown destination Sailor had no intention of going? That's exactly what it felt like.