Spindle’s revenge…

In the evenings I like to draw the velvet curtains on the world, kick back and relax with a pint of stout and a bag of pork scratchings. I then allow myself to get a bit ‘meta’ with my contemplations of life.  I am after all a reflective creature whose heart thuds with unspoken emotions and passions. I like to capture these moments, quill in paw, poets beret skimming my lug holes, and coax out these feelings into the shapes of words. Sometimes I can enter a trance like state, and the words just seem to pour out of my paws like mucus out of a germ ridden, squelchy toddler.

I had spent a considerable period of time in this glorious state this evening, when my spiritual connection to the heavens was interrupted by a clattersome sound outside. It was very like a tree splintering and I perceived a comedy whirr of short legs ‘air cycling’. I eyeballed the retreating aforementioned heavens with regret and trotted out to see what the commotion was this time. 

It was of course the Tiny Terror. She has been dedicating her dusk time activities to lurking around trees and waving her bat detector about. She is completely enthralled by bats, believing she has some sort of an uncanny and spiritual connection to them. This evening she had been balancing on the outside table on one leg (her leg, not the table) when she was strafed by an unexpected Pipistrelle. I discovered her, in a tangled heap on the grass, with twigs in her hair and the bat detector at her feet. She seemed unharmed, dazed yes, but nothing out of the ordinary so we retreated back inside Spindle Towers and she toddled off to update her bat book and have a cup of restorative tea. 

After this excitement, I reclined in my executive leather bean bag, and pondered how one’s mood can change so very dramatically in a relatively short space of time. From trance to twigs. I shall give you another example. This morning, I was called out into the kitchen by the diminutive, bat obsessed one. Grinning inanely, she declared she had an unexpected treat and presented to me something that I had only ever seen in my wildest dreams – a grated cheese ball! Thanking her kindly, I scarfed it down. To my great disappointment, on it’s second revolution around my eager chops, I discovered it was encasing a flea and tick tablet. It was too late by the time I had realised. I stared at her reproachfully, the trust we had built up fatally damaged. I turned as gracefully as I could in the circumstances and went back to bed to sulk. To conclude, a moment of pure joy, skirting suspicion, then abandonment on the platform of disappointment and treachery. 

Unhappy with this deceit, I tackled her about it later. Apparently it was my own fault as I wouldn’t eat the gigantic rolo of doom on its own, or even when it was hidden in my food. My dinner is a bit of a sore subject at the moment anyway. Whenever I have my meals presented to me, I like to gingerly pick up a chunksome morsel of my food, scuttle off and hide it somewhere…just in case.  Sadly I am also a bit absent minded so I often forget where I have secreted these meaty/fishy chunks of delight. Inevitably, one of the bipeds at Spindle Towers will find it, perhaps under a cushion, or nestled wetly in a slipper. It is like a salmon infused game of battleships, that I always seem to win. It is not a good thing to have a salmon encased foot, the argument goes. When tackled about this, I point out that it is sound practice for when I get older when I might unwittingly deposit other sorts of semi formed dollops around the house.

As we are on the subject of irksome behaviour, I have another complaint. I do not like to be watched as I perform natures necessities. This is of course a private moment of deep concentration and precise muscle palpating. We have a silent agreement that when I squat and begin the evacuation protocol, whoever is accompanying me will turn away from me to give me a little privacy. Not an unreasonable request I feel. They just about manage to do this, but they just can’t stop themselves reliving the moment later on. I have to endure the indignity of the subsequent ‘pick up’ which then follows with accurate descriptions of shape, quantity, consistency and finally, whiff factor. 

I have decided to retaliate with a campaign of terror, to illustrate how our behaviour can effect each other in a negative manner. My plan begins with a bathing related scenario. At the exact moment my diminutive mistress disrobes for her morning shower, I shall let out a loud snigger, then a hearty guffaw, not at all muffled by my paw. I have read that it is not a good thing for a women of middling years to hear, even by a different species. I will then insinuate my pointy nose past the shower curtain, and scrutinise every nook and cranny, fully armed with pre laminated score cards. Subtle, yet effective I feel. 

Until next time my friend, I shall say farewell.



2 thoughts on “Spindle’s revenge…

  1. My owner tried to sneak a ‘charcoal’ tablet into my breakfast. But I managed to dig it out of the mince ball he had hidden it in. Then I left it in the bowl, just to show him his efforts are futile.
    Raggilon Greyhound.


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