Cat v Dog

These days, now that Clover is on her own, she has her bed in our bedroom. She sleeps at the foot of our bed and snores.

You would be amazed at just how loud she can be!

She snorts and chainsaws her way through the night, sending decibel counters in the neighbouring county shooting off the scale.

 

How do you sleep, I hear you ask.
 

Well ... It's training. And having spent the past several years listening to my wife snort and grunt her way through the twilight hours, I'm very used to it!
 

Anyway, at 6 am the noise stops. It's time to get up and to let Clover out for her toilet.

This morning, as we made our way down the stairs, we were met by Blossom, the cat.

She evaded capture last night so wasn't, as per usual, put out to terrorise the neighbourhood.

At the foot of the stairs she did that cat thing ... crouching with her front paws trampling, back legs tensing ... and just as a very cautious Clover hit floor level, she pounced!
 

A left ... a right ...  a hiss!
 

Clover, surprised by the attack, pressed herself wide eyed against the wall. Blossom sat down and, looking incredibly smug, started to clean herself.

After the shock had abated, Clover began to circle around Blossom in an attempt to get to the back door. Blossom immediately stood, positioned herself directly in front of Clover, and with a withering look turned her back and sat down.

Dogs, as you probably know, have a fascination with bottoms.

So it will come as no surprise to you that as soon as Blossom's back was turned, Clover felt the need for a sniff.

She slowly stretched towards Blossom's derriere ... closer and closer ... ready to sniff.

A mere inch or two away from Blossom's bottom, Clover sneezed!

Blossom flew into the air, still seemingly in a sitting position. At the apex of her flight her legs extended, she rotated through 180°, whacked Clover smartly on the nose then, upon landing, raced headlong up the stairs.

Clover isn't the quickest of dogs.

Her reaction came several seconds after Blossom had scampered onto the upstairs landing.

She jumped, her eyes wide, and galloped down the hallway. When she reached the backdoor, she spun on the spot, whined and looked at the handle.

As I opened the door and let her out, she threw me a glance that quite clearly said 'You won't tell anyone, will you?'.

A Re-Run Of Silly!

I was having my breakfast at teatime on a cold, dark sunlit morning when to my surprise I could smell the colour of the sound the door bell makes.

"Well" I said loudly to myself. "Who on earth could be banging my bell in that shade of pink"?

Curious as to whom my visitor may be, I sent the dog to the front door with a 50p piece and a note saying 'call me'.

A few minutes later the phone rang so I answered the door saying "It’s a little bit late to be phoning at this time in the morning isn't it"?

The lady at the door I immediately recognised as someone I didn't know.

"Sir" she said without a by your leave. "I am your local neighbourhood Avon lady and I have travelled many miles from across the street to save your legs from the terrible blight of hairy legness".

Had she seen me through the window as I paraded myself naked dressed as a man with clothes on? Had my wife informed her of my most deeply held secret during one of her weekly naughty knicker meeting in the church hall?

How could she know of my shameful secret that only a handful of people at 'Gossips Anonymous' knew?

"Come in" I spluttered at her "and wipe your face with this towel".

She entered by way of in and stood in the hallway as I closed the door in the direction of shut.

"Tell me," I said as the last drops of spittle were wiped from her chin "how did you come into possession of the knowledge which you know of my hairyness"?

"Sir," she said pronouncing the comma, "I must confess that I did not know of your hairyness and that I used that merely as a ruse to gain access to your home".

"Well it worked" I answered somewhat jealously as I did not have a comma in my statement that I could pronounce as well as she had pronounced hers.

"I am in fact your local neighborhood murderer from London" she stated calmly pulling out a huge knife of minute proportions "and I have come to extract revenge on you, Arthur Plunger, for sneakily telling the law publicly who I am."

"But I live in Cardiff and my name is Daffydd Murgatroyd!" I spluttered again handing her the towel.

"Plunger wasn't at home!" she said calmly.

I stood, nervously hopping from foot to foot and said "I have no more dialogue."

"Neither have I" she answered.

"Are we done then” I asked.

"Suppose so" she said.

We retired to the billiard room which wasn't there yesterday and agreed totally with each other that it was a peculiar ending to a promising start and mediocre middle.

"We should have done the 'Four Candles' sketch" I said.

"Been done" she answered bitterly.

Together we sidled from the page and out of view of the reader.

"That was embarrassing" we said together as the author closed the editor and saved his work.