I am afraid to report that our Stocky had a most embarrassing incident occur this morning. We were in the bogs, cutting peat for the fire, when Stocky cut the cheese. So the Bog exploded and he ran like greased lightning. When I finally caught up with him, he was ashamed and said that he could not go on being in Ireland, even though he had enjoyed the Pints and the fine food. So I asked him did he want to go home to the States and see his Mom Soo. Well, he got to crying and all, and said that he did miss his Mom Soo, and along with that he missed the green, green grass of home. I reminded him that the grass is brown now from the drought, and that only in the British Isles and Ireland was the grass green. Possibly that would be so in other parts of Europe. So, he thought a moment and said that he would be very pleased to go for a trip to France. I reminded him that we had no money at this point, having skipped out on several bar tabs. After all, we had been sent to cut peat for the fire by the local pub, in payment for the Pints and food. Now, Stocky had ruined that by well, farting, and the bog exploded and all. Farting in and of itself is not an actual talent, nor does it pay for the Pints, the food, nor the ticket to another Country. So we had a problem. We thought of Mr Trump, the Donald, who occasionally makes exception for a good cause. When he heard of Stocky's plight, he forwarded an undisclosed sum so that Stocky and I could continue our adventures. He did demand to see Stocky's birth certificate, however I did remind him that Stocky was not running for President, so that seemed to calm down the Donald. With that, he replied that he had to get rid of some cash due to being in the 1 percent wealthy class. I assured him that the Squirrel Diaper Relief Fund was an acceptable IRS taxable deduction, so he relented, and in fact produced an astonishing amount of travel funds for Stocky and me. What a moment, friends! The kindness of strangers, and all. No streetcars here, but we left Ireland via the Chunnel, and we are headed for Brie, France. Stocky does not understand that we are under the sea, as this might be terrifying for him, and we all know what happens when he becomes nervous. So, he is back in his diapers thanks to having fallen on the mercy of Mr Donald Trump, billionaire extraoridinaire. Well, I had to mention that last part at Mr Trump's insistence. Plus I have to keep on calling him Mr Trump. And I never once said anything about that Squirrel on his head. We needed the cash and so we split. Hopefully France is not too hot, otherwise Stocky will splat from the heat. He WOULD like to know if Minnie, or anyone else for that matter, would be interested in his coming home soon to visit the USA. He would like to see Mt Rushmore, and perhaps have a role in that Hitchcock film North By Northwest. That's in South Dakota, which is near to Minnesota.