*The short hound slave narrates to help set the scene…

Picture it…a crisp winter morning. Bright, stark sunshine pours in through the window, its warming fingers caressing the curve of the carelessly discarded sling backs – please note these belong to the tall human as it is a perfect compliment to his silken tartan smoking jacket and utility fez. Friday night is, if I can remind you all ‘Fez and sling back Night’ (participation is not optional).

The worrying scene in front of us is this. A tall, spindly hound like figure sits elegantly, sidesaddle, on her leather breakfast throne, antimacassars perfectly aligned. Sitting in front of her is a floral tea service providing piping hot Earl Grey, poached eggs on a generously buttered muffin, with a side of marmite. A single custard cream idles by this magnificent breakfast array, patiently waiting to be hoovered up.

The hound pauses thoughtfully, mid chew and gazes out of the window. Bottomless brown eyes full of wonder and hope, sun glinting off polished whiskers. What is it to produce such an effect? It is a most unusual event for the Spindle to cease chomping, especially when there is a custard cream in the offing for breakfast pudding. As she would say, ‘Mastication for the Nation, or indeed, “A custard cream shall haunt my dreams”.

If we lift gently and then peer cautiously into her velvety ear flaps we can see the picture show of her thoughts running smoothly. It is very much like watching an old black and white film, and it seems to be a strange collection of images that I feel would be best left in her small peanut head, for reasons of decency and quite honestly I am not sure how to spell some of the things I can see. This unsettling behaviour has not been noted since she descended upon us like an accident prone furry tornado of flatulent chaos.

Spindle in suspended animation is a thing to behold. Suddenly her reverie breaks, the lights snap back on, although you could argue there was still no one at home. With a huge and ponderous sigh, Spindle pushes away the custard cream with her paw, slides off her breakfast throne and retreats to her duvet cave with an indifference which is quite alarming. The only sound that can be heard from the depths of her comfort nest is the clatter and whiz of her Imperial typewriter…which can mean only one thing…Spindle is obeying the call of poetry.

 

One day I caught a glimpse of you

A resplendent sight in the morning dew

I watched you scamper through the trees

Your agile physique, your knobblesome knees

 

So I cast aside my custard cream

To contemplate my torrid dreams

Paws raised to the heavens, a silent request

To invite you into my thermal vest

 

My mind is cluttered with thoughts of you

The siren call of which, I really must pursue

Just a whiff of you makes me tingle and tremble

And my thoughts cease to be, truly disassembled

 

We could slinkily entwine in the cool night air

All the moments I yearn for us to share

Trembling paws, emotions recklessly splayed

My innocent thoughts have monumentally strayed…

Oh what to do…

 

It would appear that Spindle has had her heart stolen…the question is by whom…or what?

More so…what good can come of this? Is her heart destined to be broken? Can the human slaves afford the cost of all the comforting ice cream and gin needed AND simultaneously endure the constant aural assault of Adele? We shall leave Spindle reclining with a cool, damp flannel over her pointy forehead. We shall creep out of the room so we don’t disturb her…