Ongoing road works in the small urban community of Westley Piddle have diverted growling roundlegs through narrow streets and squished a popular fourlegs. Things must change. But wot? Treacle the guide dog has a plan and the muttwits ain’t gonna lyk it.
A particularly noisy day in the small town of Westley Piddle, that underappreciated place on the Thameslick between Bisham and Cock Marsh. Flaplegs are squawking, furrylegs are bouncing through trees and clouds are fussing scratchily along. As usual, hindlegs are scritching nonsense at one another.
Above the din, fourlegs attempt to start the day, intelligently and sensibly –
Oi, lads, bake’n’buy at Human Beans
Already on my wa–
Can’t get over the road, too many roundlegs all abouts
Wotz stuck in one ways by road wo–
Can’t hear meself think, did yuz bark Hu–
A very particularly noisy day.
For some reason hindlegs think it’s a great idea to dig up the High Street from end to end and stick a large pooping pipe right down the middle. They are crawling all over this nonsense lyk tinylegs, digging lots of holes and making the freshly turned earth very sniffy. This is pretty inconvenient for most fourlegs wotz got important places to go to and things to do, important lampposts to squirtz on and hedges to poop und–
Smudge is unhappy. Smudge – the puppy Labradoodle with the unusual big black smudge on his head, running down between both ears and across a bridge of some snouty whiskers – cannot find the squirting spot. Smudge is taking puppy hindlegs Jemmapackmate on her walkies, together with Mouse, a streetlegs buddy. This usually kicks off with a wondrous squirtz on a favorite high street lamppost. Which is, where is it?
Was here beforenows!
Smudge can see something lying flat on the ground beside a big hole where the marker post was standing beforenows, but that cannot be the favorite marker post coz it’s not standing in the here and nows . Smudge, lyk all fourlegs, has a bit of an issue with time.
There! Mouse snoutz at the lamppost lying flat in the sniffy mud I’m telling yers
Theres, muttwit Mouse snoutz again and bounces over to stands on the lamppost heres, muttwit
Not my lamppost. My lamppost is standing
Snifz of yu Mouse licks the yellow-sniffy thing so must be yor lamppost, mate
Snifz of Giblets also, and thems streetlegs Tuffy and Drizzle, and – and GitOrrf! and–
Alright mate, chill yer beans
..and snifz of me, corss. But I also reckons hindlegs knocked it down beforenows to make this big hole
Wot a dog-damned scandal this is turning out to be.
Both fourlegs snifz the big hole, suspiciously.
Nah mate, that’s not my lamppost, don’t care wot the snifz sez Smudge trots over to the big hole but wot a great big beautiful hole to jump into
Smudge waits for Jemmapackmate to jump into the hole. Trouble is, most hindlegs don’t lyk jumping into big holes, or small holes, any sort of holes – even muddy holes. All Smudge wants to do is make Jemmapackmate orange-sniffy happy. He will do anything for that. He just knows she’ll love this hole when she jumps in so he must show her wot to do. Coz, that’s the way with hindlegs. Unclipping the leash, Jemmapackmate watches him jump straight into the hole with a muddy plop.
This hole is mental!
Mouse jumps right in.
Gooey, wotz lyk thems sniffy fudge brownies nosh at Costa Mouse rolls over and over, the whites of his eyeballs soon the only white thing about him.
And wotz lyk thems bangers Mouse continues
Ain’t no bangers at Costa!
Nah, that’s Greggs all-day brekkers, mate, and wotz lyk fishy fingers nosh
Ain’t no fishy fingers at Greggs!
Nah, that’s Tesco Extra, mate, in thems five bins ‘round back
Dont yu know nothing ‘bout noshing?
The mud is gloriously sniffy of all sorts of colourful things, fourlegs squirtz, noodles, pizzas, Coke cans, sweet wrappers, old poop, fresh poop and gaso–
If only thems dog-damn road works would give it a break.
Wotz with all thems butt-lickin’ road works? Treacle shakes earflaps, plodding carefully through mud thrown up onto Westley Piddle’s pavements.
“nowlookhereTreacle!” demands Corporal Singh packmate, retired Royal Gurkha Rifles, better known as Sixlegs by all the intimates in Westley Pidd–
All thems butt-lickin’ road works, boss Treacle grumbles, concentrating one paw before the next until his brain hurts. Sixlegs still manages to slip on some mud
Righty ho, boss Treacle keeps his best paw forward. Wot he must do anyways coz Sixlegs is almost blind. The only eyeballs between the two of thems are those on Treacle.
As it happens, the road works are making the route to Ladbrokes betting office butt-lickin’ hard work. Treacle is trained since puppyhood to steer the straightest and flattest line possible, crossing roads at designated crossings, avoiding street furniture and assorted dangers. Most essentially, making sure nothing gets in the way, be it fourlegs, hindlegs or any other type of legg’d muttw–
A butt-lickin’ conundrum without a doubt. Road works are mixing Westley Piddle’s usual colours all over the shop, upsetting Treacle’s sense of direction. Sniffy colours usually navigate the route from home to wherever. From home to Ladbrokes; to Tesco Extra; to number one pub or number two pub; and, most importantly, to the post office for the monthly pick up.
Sometimes Sixlegs lyks to go from home to Star of India. Sez it reminds him of life in the Rifles and of home. Treacle don’t think Star of India snifz anything lyk the Rifles or of home. Just snifz of take-away. That’s blind hindlegs for yu. Totally bonkers!
Back to the butt-lickin’ conundrum. Road works are nows a great butt-lickin’ ditch the length of the High Street, denying access to the usual crossing places, splashing colours all abouts and upsetting Treacle. The standard yellow-sniffy marker posts are also missing.
Treacle slows down, stops, and squirtz one against a cardboard box to get the directions sorted good and proper.
Having a squirtz, bo–
Treacle slowly trots on. There can never be any sudden movements with a hindlegs registered as physically challen–
That butt-lickin’ digger, worser than clouds scratching on a windy day
“bloodynoise,bloodydigger” Sixlegs scritches, stress transmitting itself through the frame and waist harness. Treacle stops and eyeballs at Sixlegs.
Last thing Treacle needs right nows is the old hindlegs throwing an emosh in the high street. Treacle, the chocolate brown Labrador, knows the solution well enough having been a guide dog for all six summers of his life. Alcohol!
Fancy half at pub number two, boss? he starts plodding towards the The Greyhound, his snout keeping faithful to the orange-snifz of hops.