The roundlegs snifz of buckets loads of fourlegs and other furry creatures. Missy Biscuits lies down, snout between paws, wondering about her Tony, her hindlegs packmate, nows left behind. About nows her Tony will be panicking, scritching, and tearlicking. She loves her Tony and she’s gonna need to find a way back to him. Thank dog GitOrff! was there and eyeballed it all go down. Trouble is, can she really expect any help from that old, half-chewed streetlegs?
“nonsense,nonsense,doggy” the hairy blue-purply hindlegs scritches “nonsense,nonsense,money,ha,ha!”
We can snifz yuz, oh yeah baby, we can snifz yuz unseen fourlegs bark from a large barn as the roundlegs growls into Freddy’s Farm. The door opens and Missy is dragged out.
We don’t see yuz but we sure can snifz yuz…
A squat Bull Terrier lurches straight towards Missy on only three paws.
Welcome to Freddy’s farm for guests he snarls politely me snifz name’s ThreeLegs, wotz in charge of guests accommodations, lyk – and that’s Freddy, me boss pointing his snout at the blue-purply hindlegs wot kindly whisked yu off, lyk
Pff, ain’t sniffing yu or that evil muppet Missy growls, eyeballing ThreeLegs’ stump and refusing to bump snoutz.
ThreeLegs grins a mouthful of fangs sadly, lost me fourth corner somewheres lurching closer, snout twitching, eyes shining marble-hard vet bit it off when that longlegs kicked me, know wot I mean?
Snifz any closer and I’ll bite off another she drops her head and growls deeper.
Ooo! he shivers in mock fear beforeturning towards the barn and lurching off.
Freddy grabs Missy by the collar and hauls her towards the big barn, her paws scraping across the gravel drive.
“you,gonnamakememoney,prettydoggy” he scritches, throwing open the barn door. Cages run along both sides of the barn as far as the eyeball can see, each holding a barking fourlegs, snoutz sticking between bars.
Help me, my packmates need me!
Hello sweetness! Snifz yuz…
Get me outta here…get me the lick outta here!
Freddy sticks her in a cage with the females.
She turns about and sticks a wet snout through the bars
My Tony needs me she barks, wagging her tail expectantly and I need my Tony
Freddy wobbles off, pulling a stick from his pocket, putting it to his chops and setting fire to it.
Don’t yu worry about my Tony ThreeLegs hangs back at the bars, sniffing Missy all over nows we gonna find yu a proper’er packmate
I don’t want any proper’er packmate, I only want my Tony
Enjoy yor stay and feel free to call cage service if yu wants anything he gurgles in delight and lurches away, back leg scratching uncontrollably.
Missy turns to face her fellow inmates.
Careful of him, darlin’ a fourlegs warns he’s a right nasty sniffing muttwit
He’ll hurt yuz, if yuz not careful another fourlegs agrees.
Missy lies close to the bars, idly scratching a tic from under her chops where’s my Tony she whines in sniffy red-orange misery.
Shut that racket some caged male growls back coz yor my tony’s gone forever – get over it
As it happens, the route to the Police Station takes GitOrrf! past Halfleg again. His old packmate is still sitting on the cardboard, handpaw and stump sticking out and begging for wunpounds.
GitOrrf! don’t know wot wunpounds are but they don’t snifz so good and he sure can’t nosh ’ems.
However, there’s always a few hindlegs ‘round abouts daft enough to give Halfleg wunpounds – wot magically changes into Bulmers Originals whenever he wobbles by the offy. GitOrrf! cracks a yellow-sniffy squirtz on the wall of the Pig & Ferret as he passes by.
Further down the High Street, he crosses over to inspect some orange-sniffy take-away cartons in the gutter outside Fongs Noodles.
Yaki soba and chicken would go down a treat right nows
He eyeballs the hindlegs inside Fongs, leaving a damp snout spot on the window before trotting on,.
The sniffy orange heart of all nosheries in Westley Piddle. GitOrrf! trots right past the PD compound, lost in a sniffy trance of chickens wings, chickens breasts, chickens niblets, chickens strips, chickens everything –
Oops! suddenly remembering Missy being whisked off and wot he’s supposed to be doing.
He scoots back to stand beneath the PD compound’s high wall.
Duncan? Snifz yu
There is no reply.
Duncan! Snifz yu
A deep growl leave me alone, I’m working
Working at wot?
Working at lunch
Lunch? Wot kind of lunch? GitOrff! puts his front paws on the wall, stretching up high as he can, snout holes twitching.
Police work lunch, corss
Wot did yu want anyways? Duncan sez between bites.
Missy Biscuits. Whisked off to Freddy’s Farm
Wot! a surprised bark.
Jax and Shadow, the two other PD fourlegs, join in the protest.
Who’s snatched who? Was it that ThreeLegs?
Why, that useless scratch-sniffing –
Okays lads, I got this Duncan barks louder right then streetlegs, tell it from the very first snifz
And GitOrrf! tells the story of Missy being whisked right off the streets of Westley Piddle – in between sniffy thoughts of KFC, corss. The roundlegs carrying her off, disappearing at the vape place up on the corner, heading in the general direction of Freddy’s Farm. Her companion Tony, that useless hindlegs, scritching into his handpaw. Anything else?
GitOrff! can’t think of anything else at all, apart from the snifz of chickens – forever barging in unasked between his earflaps.
There is contemplative silence from over the high PD compound wall. The sound of bowls scraping on concrete signaling the last little bit of lunch licked out. Heavy thinkings going on. Contented farts.
When woz this, exactly? Duncan continues the interrogations.
About five squirtz beforenows, and one snack outside Fongs, and one quick poop…erh, maybe longer
The fourlegs concept of time is always blurred and stuck together in a dog’s dinner of nows.
Nows states Duncan that’s a problem
GitOrrf! is only half listening, thoughts of noshing thems chickens drowning out all else. The sooner he can escape down the road, ‘round back of KFC to nosh thems chickens, the bet –
Wot problem? he suddenly stops thinking noshing. Starts thinking problem. Duncan, mate, yu best get trotting after Missy right aways
That’s the problem
GitOrrf! don’t enjoy problems between noshings.
Coz nows lunchtime – wot means nows also PC Andersen packleader’s lunch time – wot means not going nowhere nows til after lunchtime
Which is when?
Which is when lunchtime is over
I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go Jax is turning in circles, barking at the walls.
It’s lunchtime, yu muttwit Duncan belches and loudly slurps his water. He does his best proper thinkings when loudly slurping. The slurping goes on for a long time. Finally, proper thinkings sorted ear flaps up and this is wotz gonna happen….
Duncan instructs GitOrff! on the plan – wot GitOrrf! is forgetting the first bit of before Duncan can finish the last bit of, or even the middle bit of.
…with Missy safely home in time for kibbles. Questions?
GitOrff stares at the wall. The wall stares back.
Yu got all that, yu streetlegs muttwit? Shadow challenges Gitorrf!, most helpfully.
‘undred percent GitOrrf! confirms – intending to kick off the plan right sensibly by noshing some chickens first.
Right then, trot on Duncan commands And. Do. Not. Cock. It. Up!
“WALKIES” Spinsterpackmate scritches in high-pitched fingernails across glass.
About time yu old poop Foxy sighs, the honey-coloured Pomeranian bouncing about all over the furniture can’t hold in this squirtz for much longer
Vice-like handpaws hold Foxy’s head as purply-sniffing Spinsterpackmate puts on her diamante body harness.
“Out!” she scritches in a line of battle voice, surprising for her frail size.
Out on Ankers Close all is sniffing wonderfully orange-yellow of hindlegs, scratch stink, rubbish bins and fourlegs squirtings on marker posts. Instantly, Foxy goes into squatting-stroke-pooping mode. The business is cut short as Spinsterpackmate keeps dragging her onwards.
Dog-dammit, will yu slow down a mo and just lemme squirtz
A bit ways further down Ankers Close, Spinsterpackmate stops, Lidl plastic bag in handpaw.
‘readyFoxy?” and Foxy complies by squeezing out several canapé poops.
Sqwop! Sqwop! Sqwooop!
Immediately Spinsterpackmate is bending down with the Lidl, rolling and scooping thems up, one by one.
A squealing of noise and a hairy great blue-purply hindlegs is whisking Foxy right off her poooping spot.
“hellopickles” he chuckles by way of introduction, Stanley blading the lead and dumping her into the back of a roundlegs. It growls off down Ankers Close leaving Spinsterpackmate frozen in shock, Lidl bag hanging.
Wotz yor game, mate? Foxy exclaims.
Not worth it, luv a small voice mutters nearby wot happens happens, and that’s the end of it
Foxy bumps snoutz with an old dachshund yu snifz foreign, do I knows yu?
From – erh, from – where we are nows, exactly?
Not Cock Marsh then?
No, it ain’t
Bourne End? Little Marlow? Eastley Piddle?
Nah, mate, Westley Piddle
They get further acquainted with snifz ‘round mutual backends.
And I reckons we off to see ThreeLegs Foxy adds.
Oh really? the dachshund flaps its earflaps that good or bad?
Wot do yu think?
All is knows is wot happens happens. But why ain’t my packmate with me. We normally do everything together and that’s the truth of it
Foxy starts nibbling at a tick, thinking hat firmly on Oh deary me,
ThreeLegs, him again…
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