Don't Tell Her Your Name Kato
In the Garden, the dogs were on high alert, tails up, snooters down, driven by an unfamiliar scent and instinct. Sniffing and re-sniffing a suspicious patch, pawing at the earth then moving on, checking their internal instinctive maps and radar. One ear to the wind, eagle eyes scanning every minute detail.
“What are we actually looking for?” asked Kato after ten minutes of following endless scent trails and colliding with Frodi several times
“I’ve no idea Katrina, time for Tiffin anyway” said Frodi “Oh look there’s that cute little fellow who makes you go squee”
Dogs had managed (by accident not design) to corner rat in the “water feature”. Hippy went to have a look and there was a little fella swimming around.
“Don’t meet his eyes” I said “And don’t anthromor...”
“Aww, look at her little hands” said hippy “She’s doing the breast stroke, oh, she just looked at me, she looks very young, where’s your mum? Aww”
“And whatever you do, don’t give it a name” I advise
“Don’t give who a name?” said Hippy “Come and look at Bernadette, ohhh, she’s really nervous, her bottom lip quivering, little hands trembling, please don’t shoot me mister”
Bernadette (!) seems to reside in one of our compost bins. So, we find ourselves doing knock & run to deposit compost things in the bins. Or in my case, throwing a tennis ball at the bin to alert ratty that we’re about to open up her.... house.
Hippy took the vegetable peelings over, knocked on the bin “Bernie! Are you decent?”