A yawn. A scratch. A scratch for Prince. A yawn from Prince.
Diggelby rolled over in his velvety den, giving his dog a great big contented sigh—what could be better than waking up every day next to your best friend? Oh wait a tick, Diggelby knew the answer to that puzzler—being able to do that, and be Black Pope! Though really, if he had to choose only one miracle, you could bet your bottom button he’d take his devil over his day job.
Not that Prince was his devil anymore … he didn’t think? It was all frightfully queer, as befitted a supernatural entity in the guise of an Ugrakari spaniel turning up one morning in your bed, ages after you freed the beggar the first time. He even tried firmly telling Prince to go home, just in case there was some confusion about the fact that Pope Diggelby did not keep devils against their will, but the darling had merely whined and licked the papal ring with his stubby little tongue. Status of Diggelby’s heart at that moment: melted at such high heat it evaporated into a delicate mist.
He knew he really ought to get out of bed, chockablock day as he had ahead of him, but why be pope if you couldn’t sneak a quick mope? Meeting with the Holy See was hard work, half the clowns on there not knowing Chainite scripture from a Trvevian aphorism; why didn’t he promote Bishop Boris to cardinal? Technically clerics were supposed to have a familial connection to the church to hold such an exalted position, but if that’s all it took, well, there was nothing stopping Diggelby from adopting the fellow as his son, was there? Having someone with such creative interpretations of doctrine sit on the Holy See would be sure to stir up some healthy debate.
And that was what being alive was all about, wasn’t it, asking the really difficult questions? That was why the Fallen Mother had given mortals their curiosity—if she had ever even existed at all, of course! If the point of being alive was the great eternal ponder, then the best part was that there were no real right or wrong answers, just a whole lot of wondering, and then plop. The joy to life is that there are questions in the first place.
“Here’s a serious query for you, Princey,” said Diggelby, lifting his lapdog up to hover above his chest. “Should we start our day by promoting that angry little amputee to cardinal, or should we drop graveworms and go looking for holy visions in the stained glass windows again?”
Prince barked twice, which might mean let’s do both or might just mean put me down, peasant, but either way, what a great morning to be alive in the Star! Huzzah for Prince! And huzzah for Pope Diggelby the First!