Corss, getting to Tesco Extra demands plenty of marker-squirting along the way. Lampposts, council trash bins, the traffic lights at the corner of High Street and Nelson Avenue, and that suspicious cardboard box left outside the sour sniffing Oxfam clothes shop.
Sasha! states GitOrrf! licking at some female squirtz on the pavement.
Nah mate, Mayumi Tuffy licks the squirtz.
Sasha, One Ear, telling yuz
Moving on, dodging growling roundlegs on every road where they want to get across, the orange tang snifz of Tesco Extra five bins ‘round back begins tickling their snouts, slobber dripping from chops.
Honest to dog, I’m starving GitOrrf! picks up the pace noshed only four times today, can yu believe it!
Ain’t living if yu ain’t noshing agrees Tuffy, the thoughts of pizza filling all available space between earflaps.
Trouble is, a rank sniffy colour is fuming off the five bins ‘round back. Snifz of scratch, getting stronger.
Trotting ‘round the corner of Tesco Extra and there they are! A site for sore eyeballs.
Five lovely sniffy council green plastic bins, neatly parked in a row, wheels clamped, two with lids off. Cheese and pepperoni pizza wafts over, quivering snout holes. A few slices already squashed and folded on the concrete ramp out front – ready for a fourlegs trot thru.
Cor blimey! Gitorrf! yelps aghast and stops dead on his paws, Tuffy rear-ending him.
Scratch are everywhere. Everywhere!
A big black monster is dropping into one bin, fluffy rear glimpsed before disappearing inside. Prowling up to the same drop off point is a shaggy grey monster, wot balances and drops in. A ginger scratch is standing on its back claws, front claws up and whiskering the right spot to jump up and join thems. And if that ain’t bad enough, there’s a tabby scratch well stuck into a slice of pizza, wotz got Tuffy’s name written all over it, sitting all innocent lyk, right there in front of thems. Plain as daylight.
Stuck to the spot, snoutz twitching lyk mad, shocked more than is good and proper, the two streetlegs are at a loss for barks.
The tabby scratch eyeballs thems a mo, disdainful and arrogant, before sticking nasty whiskers back into the pepperoni and cheese.
We – we gotta report back croaks Tuffy.
All of ‘ems
Who’s all of ‘ems? replies GitOrrf!, lost in shock.
Ems! Ee. Ems. Tuffy spells it out all of ‘ems
Makes sense GitOrrf! shakes earflaps at Tuffy taking the lead as brains of the outfit.
But we need to reports back to all of ‘ems how many scratch are gaffing our bins, mate
Me! I’ll do the counting GitOrrf! adds fast coz he don’t want Tuffy thinking he’s the only brains of the outfit.
Get on with it then
Gitorrf! sits down on his hinds coz deep thinking needs a bit of comfort. Gitorrf! also knows that a spot of deep thinking can also affect balance. Imagine the shame of falling on his butt in front of all thems vile scratch while doing arithmeticals?
Urrrrh Gitorrf! shakes violently at the thought, one back leg kicking out.
One there he begins and one over there. And there’s another one slowing down to ensure he’s got all his arithmeticals spot on one up there, and one –
How many’s that already?
GitOrrf! cocks a leg to scratch his underside wot encourages deeper intellectuals that’s a total of one!
One! Tuffy marvels we need to trot on and tell all of ‘ems
GitOrrf! hesitates wot about lunch, then?
Wot? Us against a total of one!! Yu a suicidal muttwit or wot?
Plan agreed upon, the two fours snifz the air, snifz all over, and snifz each other before trotting on, sharpish lyk, back ‘round the corner of Tesco Extra and into the High Street, determined to tell all of ‘ems the terrible news.
Good thing about rugby growls Donuts as he worries his favorite old leather rugby ball in the hallway is the sensible shape of the ball!
He’s never understood how all those young hindlegs pups down in the communal gardens lyk playing with an un-sensible shaped ball. But that’s hindlegs for yu. Younger they are – dafter they snifz.
Donuts picks up the ball with his teeth and waddles down the hallway ..keep it in the park, boyo he heads towards the twenty two meter line nearly there, no one can intercept yu mate, nearly there he waddles towards number 5, last door at the end of the hallway 22 meter line….ten meters…and it’s a try dead center of the 5 meter line!
All twelve summers of his life, Donuts has enjoyed watching rugby with his companions. Match time, Wynn and Dora sit down on the sofa – his sofa, actually – watching the game, Donuts sitting out in front, on his favorite carpet, eyeballing the telly. He don’t know wot a telly is but he surely knows from the excited snifz of Wynn and Dora that rugby’s got something to do with it. More to the point, it’s Welsh rugby. And twelve years of summers has taught him, beforenows, all about the game, the strategicals of it, and why it’s the best dog-damn thing ever – after noshing! Don’t forget, he is a Welsh terrier.
Donuts touches down the ball in the far corner of the corridor and rests on his haunches.
Strong upper body is wot wins rugby, boyo he congratulates himself before taking up the ball again and readying to waddle down to the other end of the corridor.
Crouch…bind…set! and off he goes stay square, boyo, there’s no easy out to this game!
He reaches the other end just as the front door opens and Dora bellows “oi,inside,beforeyougoupsettingtheneighbour’scat”
He marches into the apartment, victorious at his rugby skills even if he didn’t upset the neighbour’s scratch. Wynn adds
“hurryupmate,sixnationstonight,” slapping handpaws together in a sweet snifz of glee “WalesIreland,andwe’llbeatthembuggas!”
Donuts trots into the living room, taking up his rightful place on the carpet, his carpet, in front of the telly. The place where true rugby lives in its little den. And for some completely unforeseen and unknown reason, while dwelling on all future ways he might upset the neighbour’s cat, a sudden spark of an idea ignites between his earflaps.