(no subject)
Roger stretched out on a warm patch of grass, every muscle at it's limit. He looked down the street. He wasn't waiting for anything in particular, but the sun softened his thoughts and he lazily wondered about what was going on down the street. A butterfly caught his eye and he watched as it seemed to drift, like paper in a breeze, eventually landing on a potted flower on the porch. At this he let out a huge yawn, letting his tongue flop to the bottom of his mouth.
Something darted past.
Roger focused his eyes on the last place he saw movement, honing in, scanning and waiting.
A small black blur again, right in front of his eyes.
Again.
Again. This is a problem.
Lackadaisy turned to action, Roger jumps, arms flailed. A flurry of swats whisk through the air.
The fly goes on its way, toward the sidewalk, but this isn't over. Roger gives chase.
Fixated, he tries and fails to knock it out of the air.
Again.
And again.
A rumble in the distance grows until a black car appears and pulls up. Dents and scratches riddle the side, scars on a veteran traveler. The door squeaks open. A man steps out onto the sidewalk, his long curly hair moves as he adjusts his thick black glasses. He towers over Roger. Sensing his discomfort, the man crouches down and extends a hand.
"Hey, Buddy."
Finally recognizing the man, Roger approaches. The man's hand curls behind Roger's head. Blissful scratching commences, slowly moving down his back, his tail changing from a question mark to an exclamation point.
A broad smile spreads across the man's face, but Roger pulls away long before he gets his fill. One house down, the troublesome fly bounces all over the front yard. This will not stand.
Something darted past.
Roger focused his eyes on the last place he saw movement, honing in, scanning and waiting.
A small black blur again, right in front of his eyes.
Again.
Again. This is a problem.
Lackadaisy turned to action, Roger jumps, arms flailed. A flurry of swats whisk through the air.
The fly goes on its way, toward the sidewalk, but this isn't over. Roger gives chase.
Fixated, he tries and fails to knock it out of the air.
Again.
And again.
A rumble in the distance grows until a black car appears and pulls up. Dents and scratches riddle the side, scars on a veteran traveler. The door squeaks open. A man steps out onto the sidewalk, his long curly hair moves as he adjusts his thick black glasses. He towers over Roger. Sensing his discomfort, the man crouches down and extends a hand.
"Hey, Buddy."
Finally recognizing the man, Roger approaches. The man's hand curls behind Roger's head. Blissful scratching commences, slowly moving down his back, his tail changing from a question mark to an exclamation point.
A broad smile spreads across the man's face, but Roger pulls away long before he gets his fill. One house down, the troublesome fly bounces all over the front yard. This will not stand.