Mrs Whistler hangs in unperturbed profile on the wall, looking down upon a scene of barely controlled chaos - a metres-high mountain of clothes spilling from bags and boxes and suitcases, stacks of candelabra, crockery, books, breadboards, lamps, baby-baths, saucepans, vases and vacuum cleaners. 
Mrs Whistler knows all about being discarded and cast-off. When her son James painted her portrait in 1871 he called it simply Arrangement in Grey and Black No.1, a nomenclature which so outraged the English art world that in order to support his family, James had to pawn the painting. Now of course, it is one of the most famous images in the world and is worth millions of dollars.
This is perhaps why Mrs Whistler seems so sanguine about her tarnished frame, the silverfish which are nibbling away at her, and her humble location on the wall of the sorting room of the Salvation Army opp-shop: she knows that given sufficient time and changes in taste, even the apparently worthless discard can garner value. 

The Dog’s life is going to be very, very different when he wakes up.
From that point on, he will have no contact with the outside world unless it’s mediated by me. I’m changing the password on the computer. I’m removing the Canine Voice Recognition software from the phone and just to be safe, I’m moving the handset to the top of the bookcase out of paw’s reach. There will be no excursions off-leash. Exercise periods will be restricted and the dog will be compelled to wear collar, leash and day-glo orange coat on all walks. He’ll be on a strict diet of water and budget dog biscuits and denied access to human bed and couch.