A doggy biscuit

There once was a man and a woman, but then there was another man, and maybe another woman, then there was a dog, because there often must be a dog, otherwise were would we be then? Burning and pillaging like savages? No, no. We’re not savages. I tell you, not savages. And a dog is proof of a civilized nation. A good nation. The type of nation whose people drink tea and eat biscuits. The fancy ones in a tin can, not those cheap ones that taste like sawdust that you buy in some tacky green plastic bag in the supermarket. Please, I spend good money on quality. I am a person of taste after all. A dog is like a fancy biscuit. Only the good breeds, mind you. Yes, like a fancy biscuit. You can depend on its quality. Its flavor. The biscuit’s, not the dog’s. Regardless, a dog is a must. A must, a bust, a trust. That rhymes, chimes, limes. Ooooh, limes..haven’t had those for a while now. Wait, where was I? Ah, yes, it was 1945, and the War on Europe was over. A man and a woman, and maybe another man and a woman, held the fate of the world in their hands…as did the dog. That dog was….gee, I wonder what those biscuits taste like? I could go for some biscuits. Oh yes, some tasty biscuits with a cup of tea. Yeah. That’d hit the spot. Where’s that damned dog gone to now? Ach, always something with that dog. First its fleas, then peeing all over the carpet in the living room, now its gone AWOL. I tell you, I should have gotten a cat. Oh bother…someone ate the last biscuit. Well, that does it then. I can’t continue this tale biscuitless. I quit. Good day to you.

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A Mouse is brave

Mordecai’s whiskers twitched. It wasn’t the falling snow that sent a shiver down his spine, though its soft, cold touch certainly did not help. The grey owl was massive. A behemoth of beak, talons and feathers. It met him upon the snowy field; there was no place for him to hide.

The owl hooted, a low rumble from the depths of its bowels. A challenge; it knew the old ways. Small as his foe was -mere prey, some would mock-, the owl granted him this. Whether for its own amusement, or out of genuine respect for standing against it.

Mordecai’s cape flapped back and fro, snapping behind his back. His sword had not been baptized. “Naked steel”, Roderick once called it. Part jest, part truth. He was unproven.

Now, he faced death. His paw’s grip tightened around the handle of the sword to ground himself. The trembling subsided for a bit. Smoke billowed out of his mouth with each breath, would these be his last? It didn’t matter. A challenge had been issued; he raised the handle and pressed it gently over his furry forehead. “To the death, then.”