He sat there looking rather dejected, hidden in his duster bag that had grown weathered over time. He made a long journey from Paris to finding a new home in a make shift shed, on an entirely different continent, and in a new city. For a time I had kept looking at his duster bag, looking at the fan motif without taking much notice. One day I finally had, and the connection was made. I plucked the handbag up, saving him from a life of dejection, or of being sold. (Can I make this tale about my handbag any more dramatic?:P)