Andy, the Willoughby family’s Border Terrier, was in
disgrace. That was a pity as he had been the star of their
video card which had scored thousands of hits on Youtube.
But Brassica had caught him in the act of cocking his hind leg
against her Noble Fir, non-shedding Christmas tree and he had
already stolen their Stollen before the shopping had been put
Brassie wished that she could put him in the garden for a while, but
after his recent expensive ingestion of discarded elastic bands,
probably dumped on their drive by a litter lout of a postman, she
decided that the ensuing vet bill would not be worth the moments of
relative peace. How she wished that there could be a kind of canine
creche, so that he could be a dog in the manger, in keeping with the
spirit of the season. Failing that, there was always the twins’ old
playpen, but Andy could leap over its sides.
Oh no! He had spotted the postman coming through the gate and he
immediately leapt onto the forbidden sofa with its new festive throw,
pulling threads with his claws. He put his front paws on the back and
tangled his rear legs in the flex of a string of fairy lights. He barked furiously
and then Brassie heard the crash of breaking glass and she rushed into the
sitting room, only to discover a Border-shaped hole in the bay window.
The postman had fled down the path and the twins were ordering their
pesky pet to come to heel, a request which he was ignoring as usual.
Brassie, against all her principles, threw the menace a festive chew and
he instantaneously diverted his focus to the treat.
Mum! Did you see that massive leap? It was a-ma-zing? Castor enthused.
Pollux added: He didn’t cut himself; he was so fast that he went clean
Andy looked as if he expected to be congratulated. He rolled over for
his tummy to be tickled. The bulbs attached to his back legs were
Don’t touch him! she ordered. You’ll probably be electrocuted or ripped
to shreds by slivers of glass. Oh, where am I going to get a glazier just
before Christmas? she despaired.
In the local magazine, Castor suggested.
But the local magazine’s latest issue was lying in the mud along with
a batch of Christmas cards further down the lane.