Ian has been reading a Philip Marlowe novel and wen he goes to wurk I have been dipping into it. This is my short story – you’ve got to read it like you are Humphrey Bogart.
Seven forty-five, human time. I hear a noise from the bedroom, like Winalot Shapes, the black charcoal ones, being shaken in an empty Quality Street tin. It’s Anne Atkins, Thought for the Day. The humans can’t stand her either. Two legs appear from my vantage point under the ironing board. I can’t see the rest of the body although I assume torso and head are attached. The legs disappear into the bathroom. Water running. Always running. Lady it must be like a lake in there! And then they reappear, smelling different. Not good, not bad, just different. The legs put themselves into trousers and pass me on the way to the door.
“Morning Ozy”. I ignore the voice. No point in responding, expending any energy. It won’t get me anywhere. There’s a routine. If I follow the routine I’ll get fed. If I don’t then I’ll still get fed but would have to sit downstairs and get in the way. Better to stay where I am. My stomach growls. Wen was my last meal? Yesterday, early evening. It makes another noise, like a pepper grinder when all the corns have gone. Perhaps if I sit on the sofa I’ll take my mind off the hunger. Sofa, basket, sofa – no, still hungry.
People. I can hear people downstairs. Wot are they like? Good, bad, kind, likely to feed me? Little point in going down for ten minutes – nothing ever happens to start with. I need to appear just as they are finishing their sausages and starting on the toast. I practice a sad, hungry look. Yes, that’ll work and I slowly slink downstairs like a panther stalking a wounded ibex. I check that none of my humans are in sight and, as quick as a flash, I’m in the dining room. I find the most likely looking couple. The lady’s as thin as a rake, he’s hungover and I sit and stare. I can see leftovers. I communicate using canine telepathy. It works and half a sausage finds its way into the mouth, SMASHING.
Back into the kitchen. I’m told to get out but this isn’t one of those long goodbyes, it’s a routine we do every day and seems to keep the humans happy. I look at my bowl. Stare, willing it to magically kibble itself up. A human picks it up and I trot after the bowl and human carrying it to the food store in the laundry room. I watch. You’ve got to watch. If you don’t they might give you a short measure, and then we walk back to the house, crocodile fashion. I wait, drool a bit and then…. “Go”. I eat as quickly as I can, lick the bowl and then back to bed. After all that excitement I need a Big Sleep.
Farewell my lovelies.