Sunday, 30 June 2013

The Lunatics are in the Park

It's the night after the longest day and the moon is peering close to the earth, casting its full beam onto the night creatures that have come out to play. I hear them scraping on the grass beside the cabin and freak out. From the safety of the humans' bed I bark, warning them that it's not safe to go outside. They don't listen.

They're in the living area, staring at the moon, hypnotised by its brightness, til the clouds creep over and free them from its power. Alerted by my alarm, they look out the other windows to see if they can spot anything. The master checks the outside door, only to find it unlocked, his test opening it in the process. We're not safe. I leap from the bed and rush to the exit to protect him. 

Pushing past his legs, I pounce towards the gate but there are no aggressors to face. I peer at the forest for movement and listen intently. The drips from the down pipes tap intermittently from all four corners of the cabin, remnants of the rain trickling off the roof, sounding like a discordant mental institution percussion section. Then I hear the beast again. It's moved round the back, on the slope. I take off along the side decking to the back fence and release a volley of barks. Let it know this cabin is protected.

The master quickly joins me. Not to support me in my defense of our lives but to keep me from raising my voice and disturbing the neighbours. 'What neighbours? We're alone, on both sides.' My riposte causes me to lose sight of the beast but I can still hear it, scratching at the ground, grumbling. The master hears it too and is perturbed, too many horror film plots sparking in his memory. He can't tell where or what it is. He escorts me back inside by the collar and locks the door.   

'We're under attack', I tell the mistress, who has gone to bed to be safe. She tells me to join her under the duvet. I comply. I may as well be warm and comfortable until it's time to fight. The master stays on watch, concerned he'll have nightmares or worse get killed in his sleep. 

We didn't die but it was a very exciting end to the day and I got to stay in their bed for a lot longer than normal. They still don't know what kind of animal it was. Let them believe it was a werebeast transformed by the power of the full moon. Maybe they're not wrong. I'm not saying.

Saturday, 8 June 2013

Two Weeks Later

Finally summer is here and I'm in sun heaven. I feel like a puppy again. I just wish my owners would make me a dog flap so I can stay in the garden and sunbathe when they're at work.

The master has been struggling with his diet. There's nearly been grounds for divorce. At the Eddie Izzard gig a woman sitting next to him bought herself a double chocolate nougat wafer ice cream and it took all his willpower to resist sticking his tongue down her throat for a taste. He was almost drooling as she nibbled on the last corner, his stares not being rewarded with a share. He doesn't have my big brown eyes and cute looks. 

The mistress wouldn't let him get one of his own. He said people at work were asking if he was unwell or undead. She didn't flinch. He's been twelve days without chocolate, biscuits, cakes, donuts or ice cream. He should be wasting away but his belly is just as big. He says its because he has a ventral hernia but that's still to be confirmed. 

He's got exercises to do for his back. I helped him out today by going for a run at the holiday park. He expected me to retrieve the tennis ball that had rolled down the slope in front of the cabin and I did fetch it but my nose caught a whiff of a nearby barbecue and my stomach took me in a different direction. Freedom! He chased me, almost losing his cap as we ran across the grass. I lost him in the long grass at the other side but we made up before he had a coronary. I helped him stretch his back as he leaned down to grip my collar and march me back to the cabin. 

The wasps have left deep scores in the bench two weeks on but the master has been fighting back with a can of Raid. He's been like Charles Bronson in Death Wish, stalking any yellow and black striped beastie that approaches the decking, spraying them to twitchy spasms of death as soon as they land. Unless one surprises him, then he's a shrieking yelper who runs away like a girl. I reckon it won't be long till he gets stung.

Till next time.