Westley Piddle’s summer fayre is back in town. Poppet, the willowy Afghan blond, is sort of humpy coz she’s expected to win first prize at Best of Show. Wot she really wants to win is some sniffy sweet eightleggers with Drizzle, the fittest muttwit ‘round abouts.
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A particularly quite morning in Westley Piddle, that unremarkable town on the Thameslick between Bisham and Cock Marsh. The only sound a drip of rainlick from damp trees. Stillness. Peace. The air holding its breath. Until, that is, some daft flaplegs decides peace is dead and sqwarks.
Soon enough, flaplegs across the whole gaff are sqwarking out of their tiny minds. Mental.
As it happens, a convoy of roundlegs are growling into Herdwick pooping park – wot upsets the flaplegs in the first place. Now, sniffy looking hindlegs are wobbling all over carrying stuff to build tents, arcades, pavilions and noshing stalls. The long-awaited West Pid summer fayre is back.
The fourlegs morning chorus can’t wait to bark all about it –
Helloooo, here we goooo
Gonna be a right noshfest
Chicken, beef, lamb, loadsa mammal-leggy nosh
Kicking off down the park, bowl-mates
Oh. My. Dog.
All in all, not a particularly quite morning in Westley Piddle.
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Sparky, the tingly Whippet, is out early with Kevin, his hindlegs companion. KevLegs to the intimates. Neon green Beats wrapped across his head furs, KevLegs is oblivious to flaplegs, fourlegs and sniffy hindlegs in the park. He ain’t hearing nothing but sounds of the 70’s.
“Ah-ah, ah!” scritches the muted sound of Robert Plant from the Beats.
“Ah-ah, ah!” KevLegs scritchy scritches right along with him.
We come from the land of the ice and snow Sparky joins thems for the next verse from the midnight sun, where the hot springs flow
Sparky is tingly – coz tingly is chilled-looking and ain’t nervous-looking. Whippets move in jerky spasms. Each step of a Whippet paw is lyk being nervously poked in the eyeball. Stopping to cock a jerky leg is a poke. Stepping along the street is a continuous poke. Even standing still is a poke of sorts.
Not Sparky, coz he’s into 70’s rock. A jingly Whippet hammering to the gods.
“Ah-ah, ah!” KevLegs scritches “ah-ah, ah!” he eyeballs Sparky lost in songs of immigrants.
“Ouronlygoal,willbethewesternshore…Ah-ah, ah! Sohurryup,and…erh…pissmate,gottagettowork”
So now yu better stop and rebuild all yor ruins
Sparky and KevLegs. Westley Piddle’s power rock duo.
“for,peaceandtrustcanwintheday,despiteallyour…erh…lackofpissing” KevLegs laughs so violently he farts.
Uh-Oh Sparky needs to finish his squirtz and get KevLegs home, fast.
From the snifz of it KevLegs is starting his daily gas probs. A very sniffy problem, indeed. But Sparky adores his KevLegs. Coz life with KevLegs is all about vibes. Of rock. Real rock – not alt, not goth, not thrash, not prog, not any of thems wannabe rock sounds. Just the three riff genuine article: 70’s rock, as taught him by KevLegs and Led Zep. Sparky loves it. Maybe that’s why he believes he’s not just a tingly whippet – but Fenrir, the gigantic wolfmate of Tyr, that Norse god of war.
“andnowforsomebreakingnews,Sparky…” KevLegs teases Sparky with a fart. Sparky wags tail in adoration. The snifz of last night’s Rogan Josht intoxicating. He trots homewards as fast as tingly paws can trot.
Valhalla, I am coming!
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Poppet, the Afghan temptress of three summers, admires herself in front of the hallway mirror. Excited by the snifz of the summer fayre being hammered into shape down the road, across the junction, round that curvy bend, over Nelson Avenue and slap bang in the middle of Herdwick pooping Park. Shaking her head, strawberry blond earflaps fizz across big innocent eyeballs. Her long hair is braided in Viking locks, coat curried to glossy silver perfection.
One fit looking fourlegs she admits but… and bumps her snout against the mirror fit enough to win?
Mirror image trembles to the creak creak creak of Sharonpackmate on the stairs. Stonks, as she’s known to the intimates, appears in new clothfurs. Poppet always snifz her in new clothfurs. Wotz wrong with just one fur, lyk wot Poppet wears all the time. Hindlegs ain’t sensible.
“watchafink,Poppet?” Stonks bounces off the last step, spinning round “likethecolour?Electricvanilla”
Poppet don’t know wot to think and only twitches her snout.
“comeonthenPoppet,let’sgetout,andseewhatcock’sabout” Stonks opening chops sniffy with breakfast to lick her small shiny teeth.
Mirror inspection over, Stonks unlocks the front door and wobbles down the garden path, through the garden gate and into Hazelmarsh Road. Poppet follows in shimmering strides.
Stonks lyks to walk up front, complaining she don’t lyk looking at Poppet’s ass all the time. Poppet has two problems with that. First of all, Poppet ain’t got the kind of tail up, pink rosebud pooping-hole ass always showing 24/7 lyk wot some fourlegs have ‘round abouts Westley Piddle – Poppet’s ass is a feather soft waterfall tail hiding her pooping hole. Second of all, coz Sharonpackmate’s got a right stonker of an ass, sadly.
“Poppet,don’tshitandshameme” Stonks scritches, yanking on the lead “propershittingspot,only”
As always
Music is scritching from a radio where two male hindlegs are wobbling about on some scaffolding. One has his clothfurs off, revealing a furless chest.
“cockhim!” Stonks scritches breathlessly.
The two hindlegs are eyeballs-on Stonks. Sniffing her up and down. Their orange-sniffy lust striking Poppet’s snout from across the street,.
“ignorethem,Poppet” Stonks yanks at her lead. Poppet knows Stonks has the hooter for sniffing out testosterone-heavy hindlegs – almost equal to her own snout for sniffing out lusty male fours.
“don’tencouragethem,toomuch” Stonks flashes eyeballs “butstartpeeing,rightnow”
Poppet dutifully stops and squirtz, long enough to concentrate the hindlegs’ lust and short enough not to satisfy any of it.
“ellodarling,nicedog!” one of thems scritches, Stonks enjoying the attention.
Happy now?
“comealongPoppet” she wobbles up Hazelmarsh Road, grinding her wide-load wiggle.
Poppet reckons thems male hindlegs eyeballs are staying well locked onto a female pooping hole right til the end of the road. Surely not her own!
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Drizzle emerges out of woods dripping with rainlick and the yellow squirtz wot marks his territory. Countryside gives way to West Pid. streets lined with hedges and brick walls, behind which are hindlegs housedens, families, and happy fourlegs. He can snifz the head-patting happiness inside those housedens. Raising his muzzle to the sky, sniffing, searching, wondering wot his own head-patting hindlegs are doing. And where they are now?
Snifz yuz. Get away from here fourlegs growl from housedens
Earflaps drooping under the brief summer rainlick Drizzle remembers being inside his own houseden, warning off streetlegs outside his territory. Memories give way to reality. Now he’s a streetlegs. It is wot it is. He trots on.
Snifz yuz. I’m gonna hurt yuz when I get out
No packmates? No one cares, mate
My hindlegs, mine!
Snifz any closer and lose thems plum bobs
Fourlegs bark, paws banging against windows. He ignores.
Drizzle don’t miss his hindlegs family. That’s coz, everything is always in the heres and nows for fourlegs. Any moment nows his pack family will return to reclaim him. Any moment nows. No worries til then.
An ugly black and white scratch arches its back and hisses. Drizzle passes by without a snifz, in no mood to be arguing with Scratch so early in the morning. He’s famished and wants noshing. A brekkers of sausage and bacon is just the ticket. Two fat pork sausages: gone in two fat bites. Stringy bacon held down with paws, shredded between teeth.
Drizzle trots through The Cut and into Westley Piddle High Street, snout pointing full speed ahead towards Greggs.
That’ll work!
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“beendazedandconfused-“
So long it’s not true. Wanted a woman…
Sparky stretches out on the end of KevLeg’s bed, happily eyeballing him air guitar in front of the wardrobe mirror.
“lotsofpeopletalking,fewofthemknow-“
Soul of a wom–
“wascreatedbelow,yeah!” KevLeg’s strains his back under thems massive chords. His wind-milling hand bashes the Monsters of Rock lightshade on the bedroom ceiling, swinging it all over the place.
“ready!” KevLeg’s packmommy scritches from the kitchen – also from below.
Sparky pricks up ear flaps at all the scritching but KevLegs own tiny earflaps can’t heart it over Dazed and Confused. Packmommy bashes the bannisters but fails to get his attention. “Oi.yer.useless.git” she scritches with every thump “getdownhere,muppet!”
Oi, Jimmy P. Brekkers, mate
“..sweetlittlebaby,Iwantyouagai-wot?”
Nosh init, yer spanner Sparky jumps off the bed and snoutz open the bedroom door. Packmommy is standing there, mug of tea in handpaw. Seeing her in the mirror, KevLeg’s wind-milling pose becomes a lightbulb fixing pose in the Monsters of Rock lightshade. This surprises Sparky. The Monsters of Rock lightbulb works fine, dunnit?
“rightmuppet” Packmommy snorts.
Rockmuppet Sparky agrees.
Sparky lies under the brekkers table alert for bits of cornflakes, toast, or bacon butty. His head on the kitchen linoleum, snout touching KevLeg’s footpaw. A constant I’m here and hungry reminder.
“yerdon’tgetit,mom,” KevLegs is scritching through his munching “notlikegoingtothesupermarket,izzit?” he munches, “can’tjustpickcrumpetoffthefrozencounter,canyou?”
Crumpet? not sure wot sorta nosh that is but there’s right juicy sausages down at the su–
“gotothefayre,Kevin,andfindagirl,”
Thickly buttered crust of toast drops in front of Sparky. He inspects it with a critical snifz before noshing it.
“anicegirl…anygirl””
A big legged woman
Packmommy’s chair creaks as she grabs for something across the table.
“that’sallyouroldmom’sasking”
“rightmom,checkitoutlaters,” his handpaw reaches down and sticks a rasher of bacon in Sparky’s eye “won’twe,Sparky?”
We will? the orange-sniffy bacon almost masks KevLeg’s purple-sniffy farts. But Sparky knows the purple gas snifz is always there. Gas flowing throughout KevLegs lyk those Tinylegs do under West Pid’s pavements. It don’t matter. Wotever KevLegs does don’t matter one bit to Sparky.
For some reason, packmommy wants KevLegs to meet a female hindlegs. Wot Sparky thinks ridiculous, lyk. Coz he don’t need any hindlegs female.
Coz yu got me!
“anicegirl,yerdaftmuppet” she scritches hopefully, dumping more toast on top of Sparky.
To squeeze my lemon till the juice ru– yuck, Marmite’s on this bit!
Sparky noshes it anyways.
KevLegs toys are scattered ‘round abouts Sparky’s sleeping mat. Teeth-bitten ball KevLegs loves throwing that Sparky must forever go fetch. Slob-covered leather bone KevLegs loves to try and pull from Sparky’s mouth. And, KevLegs favourite, that well-chewed sqwarky chicken leg. Sparky forces himself to rise to the occasion, pretending it’s him who really loves chewing it.
KevLegs stands at the front door of the houseden wearing his bestest T-shirt, an over-washed Jimmy Page on double-necked Gibson.
“Comeonmate”
Sparky leaps into the air, spinning all four legs to land perfectly on the sleeping mat and scoots for the front door.
“let’sgodownHerdwick” KevLegs scritches, Sparky’s lead in one handpaw.
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USUAL MUTTWITS 