Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Tuesday, 26 March 2013
The tiny Yorkshire Terrier stood by it's food bowl at one end of the kitchen as the old woman busied herself at the other. It was way past his feeding time, and he was letting out little yelps and whines in the hope of reminding her, but she ignored him.
She strode about the kitchen, lifting lids off great pans and plunging her face into billows of steam which condensed in melancholy rivulets that ran down the gloss-painted walls.
She brought down a massive cleaver onto lumps of meat, causing nearby crockery to jump and jingle with each fall of the blade. The dog inched his bowl a little closer with his nose, then looked up imploringly at her once again.
Eventually, it wandered disconsolately through the open door and out into the kitchen garden, where it stopped to urinate onto a Spring Cabbage. Half way through, it caught a faint but fascinating scent which emanated from the far end of the vast lawn, and it lowered it's leg slowly as it took it in.
It moved toward the gate in the walled vegetable garden, then - pausing on the threshold - lifted it's head and began sniffing in earnest. There it was again.
Soon, it was trotting across the lawn toward the edge of the woods, and the closer it got, the stronger the scent became. The dog entered the wood and began sweeping around in figures of eight amongst the vegetation - for now, instead of following a thin, linear trail, it was homing in on the rich miasma of scent that surrounded the object, and to it's powerful little nostrils, the scent spelt 'edible'.
It did not use it's eyes until the last moment, when - almost accidentally - it stumbled upon the source of the smell, and even then it did not use them for long before it picked it up and made it's way back to the kitchen.
When he returned, the old woman seemed in an even worse state of mind than before, so he settled down in his basket and began to enjoy his long-overdue meal.
Vaguely aware of the dog's return in her bleared peripheral vision, the woman also remembered that it needed to be fed, so she opened the door of one of the wall-cupboards, and ran her tearful eyes over rows of tinned dog-food before selecting one and opening it. She blew her nose into one corner of her gingham pinafore, then walked toward the dog basket with the tin in one hand and a fork in the other.
As she bent down to decant some meat into the dog's bowl, the shock of what she saw caused her to drop the fork onto the tiled floor with a metallic clatter.
One tiny shoe was lying near the bowl, and various articles of miniature clothing were strewn around the area, all of them torn and bloodied.
The little dog was lying in it's basket, toying with something between it's paws which made small cracking noises as it contentedly chewed on it.
There could be no help for the old gardener now, she thought.