Stories

My Mug

I've got this ancient mug,

I've had the thing for years

It mostly holds my coffee,

but now and then some beer.

On the outside is a dinosaur

A Tuojigosaurus (Honest)

I've used it for so long now

The damn thing's almost porous

It's chipped and cracked all over

It's a dirty grey inside,

I clean it every now and then

With neat formaldehyde.

Every time I have a coffee

My mug, it brimeth over.

This goes back unto the time,

I mistook sugar for baking soda.

My mug, it serves me faithfully,

Though, leaking like a seive,

It leaves more coffee on my desk

Than has ever passed my lips.

My wife, she swears she'll buy anew

Next time she's down the market.

I oft reply, no need have I.

Oh Drat! I've bleedin' dropped it!

Chris Shaftoe

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Psychology Of The Cat

I use a walking stick to get around the place these days. It’s a bamboo affair with a nice double bend hand grip that sits very comfortably and spreads the load evenly across my palm when I’m walking.

My wife adopted a cat last year, or rather a kitten as it was then. Now at least eighteen months old, with fangs to match and that attitude cats tend to have, it sits imperiously wherever it wishes with its front paws tucked under itself and head sunk down into its chest.

Of course these two items, the cat and the walking stick, may not at first seem to be related. But then you, dear reader, could not possibly know that the cat and I have a relationship that verges on psychological warfare.

You see, the cat will, as cats do, sit wherever it sees fit and that for me its most irritating habit. The sofa, the chair, the table, the window sill, a radiator – cool, the cat is not stupid – the ironing, the bed. All these things and more, depending on its whim and the amount of aggravation the cat wishes to cause me.

However, the most annoying place the cat has found to place itself, when not sleeping in my wife’s lap, is the middle of the room. And I do mean the middle. It wanders in, decides that this would be a good time to ignore everyone, and gracefully relaxes into the paw-warming position I described earlier, facing west.

The cat knows that anyone wishing to traverse the carpeted room will have to either carefully step over or go around its now sleeping lump to avoid the danger of stepping on or tripping over it.

But in this it has reckoned without the knowledge that I dearly wish someone would be cruel enough to kick it up the rear end and in so doing teach it a lesson in common sense; that sitting in the middle of the floor is not a good idea and does not engender good feelings toward it on my part.

Hence the walking stick.

I’m on a winner here. Whenever the cat is stupid enough to plonk itself down on the carpet I creep up behind it – from the east – and reverse my walking sick in the manner of a golf club. Imagining that the cat is sitting on a golf tee, I prepare myself in the same way a golfer might when teeing off at the first hole at St Andrews.

The cat knows where I am. I can see it tense its entire body. The noise of my golf…er. ..walking stick swishing through the air as I take several practise swings is unmistakable. The cat sees, as I do, the long fairway before us, the lushness of the grass, the colours of autumnal leaves, the fluffy whiteness of the clouds. It knows, as I do, that in mere seconds it will be airborne, propelled by my walking..er..golf club, sailing high over the trees, in a beautiful curving flight-path that will take it on to the next green, or more accurately, through the glass in the front room window and onto the front garden rockery.

It shivers slightly, adrenaline coursing through its veins, its heart accelerating, muscles tensing to breaking point, its mind a hopeless confusion of fear, anticipation, indecision and disbelief.

I bring my golf club back as far as I can without upsetting my balance and collapsing in an ungainly heap. This is it, my power swing, the one that’s going to produce the best tee shot St Andrews has ever seen, the one that’s going to show the cat in no uncertain terms just who’s boss. I bring the club back down as hard as I can, the air whistling out of the way, every ounce of my strength concentrated on the club’s business end, only to stop scant millimetres from the cat’s backside.

The cat turns its head slowly, its green eyes full of derision, fear and even hatred. It’s considering my actions, inwardly debating my next move. Was that it? Will I swing the walking stick one more time? Is it still possible that I will actually complete the stroke? These thoughts and more have the required psychological effect and as I return to my comfortable chair I know I have won. The cat is unnerved by my inaction. It realises that I could have so easily taken one of its nine lives, and that it is well on the way to becoming a nervous wreck.

But more than this, more than the horror of learning just how deadly an irate human male with a walking stick golf club can be, the cat knows there are seventeen more fairways at St Andrews……

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Turkish Tale?

Suppose turkeys decided not to become Christmas dinner?

"Here he comes again!" said Tim. "His Royal Highness, Generalissimo the First."
Terry swivelled his neck nervously to bring the oncoming ogre into view.
"Oh no! He really is a pain in the wishbone. This is the third time today. You'd think he'd have better things to do than to gloat over us."
Tim scratched at the shavings in their round enclosure and pecked at a feather that caught his eye at the base of Terry's long neck. Terry pecked him back until he lost interest.
"What's he doing outside anyway? He should be in here with us."
Terry followed the pack of two hundred or more of his relations around the fencing, as startled as the rest of them by the arrival of a couple of Humans.
"I heard he was adopted by the Farmer's daughter hundreds of turns ago.
He's been gobbling all over the place ever since." replied Terry, keeping one eye on the humans gesturing at their enclosure. Changing the subject he said, "They're looking at us again."
"It must be that time of year," muttered Tim.
"What time?" asked Terry, startled again by the proximity of the General.
Tim sighed. "Oh, I don't know. Somebird told me that every year the Humans have a big clean-out and everybird goes to a new home and gets something called the 'Chop'."
"I know that!" gobbled Terry indignantly. "We all get moved sooner or later."
"No. This is different. They don't do just an enclosure, the whole pole-barn gets moved on. All of us!"
"Sounds like fun. I was getting fed up with this place anyway." He stared wistfully about him as if looking for clues. "I wonder what a Chop is?"
A new voice sounded above the gobbles in their enclosure. Terry realised that the General had finally got near enough to talk to them.
"You're all for the chop! All of you! You're all gonna die!"
Terry looked nervously at his cousin Tim who scrambled to avoid the rush of birds going past them and struggled to stay close to the perimeter fence.
"Don't spout gobbledy-greek to us! I'll peck your tail-feathers all over this barn!"
The General flapped in disgust. "You young poult! You need to learn respect. Unfortunately for you, you won't be here long enough for that. You're all gonna die!"
Tim pecked at the General but missed and banged his cropped beak on the fence. He shook with rage and gobbled, "Your Mother was a duckling and I hope your feathers fall out!"
"By the Great Beltsville! If I could get in there I'd teach you a thing or two!"
Tim flapped and gobbled with delight. "What's stopping you?"
Terry answered for the General. "The fact that he'd have two hundred of our relations on his back is what's stopping him."
Tim's brother Trevor joined him at the fence. "What are you wasting time talking to that old chicken for? Don't you know it's Ration Time?"
"Food!" yelled Terry, flapping an about-turn. The General was suddenly forgotten as he scrambled to join the others flocking to where the Humans were filling the troughs with wheat and soya-bean mash and water.
It never ceased to amaze Tim that they could make so much noise while eating. It didn't seem to bother anybird, but he couldn't help wondering what it was all for. The Humans came, went, looked and fed. They were looking now, looking at him. He cocked his head to one side, wondered what they were grinning about. Why were they pointing in his direction? Perhaps the General was right; maybe they were all going to die. He resolved to ask the old bird next time he came-a-calling.
Seeing his cousin Theo nearby he said, "What's this Chop everybird's going on about?" Too late he remembered that Theo was as mad as a March Hatchling.
"Chop-chop! Chop-chip! Chip-chop!"
Theo flapped around in circles kicking up shavings as he went. Tim decided to ignore him and ate his fill whilst keeping a beady eye on the Humans.
A sudden panic swept over the enclosure as the Humans picked up the General and deposited him amongst the birds he had so often vilified.
"Hello, General!" said Terry, cheerfully. "Come to join us young Poults, have you?"
The General said nothing, concentrated instead on escaping the sudden interest his arrival had created in the enclosure. Feathers flew in all directions as he fought to defend himself from so much attention.
Tim pecked and scratched his way through the throng in search of Terry. With flapping wings he distracted Terry long enough to draw him away from the General. "We have to stop this. I've been thinking that the General might be right."
"Right about what? He's only here because the Farmer's Daughter doesn't feed him anymore. The Humans are sick of him pecking at their legs."
"Exactly! So why put him in here with us? It doesn't make any sense."
The General suddenly appeared at their side, having managed to escape the rest of the flock. "Damn ingrates! Try to give 'em advice and would they listen? Oh, no! No respect, anybird, not one....!"
Tim and Terry hemmed the General against a relatively quite part of the fence. He looked for a way out but then realised that Trevor too was heading his way. Escape was impossible.
"Well, hooligans. What do you want?" he blustered, still full of his own self-importance. "Come on! I haven't got all day."
"That's just it, General. How many turns do we have before the Humans move us out of here?" asked Terry, his arguments with the old bird suddenly forgotten.
The General looked for something of interest on the enclosure floor, his head turning quickly from side to side. "I only know what I've seen and it isn't pleasant, I can tell you. Young birds dragged gobbling from the Pole-barn. Not just one or two, you understand. The Humans took all of them, every last one."
"But what for?" cried Tim, exasperated.
"The General shuddered nervously. "For the chop, of course! You're all for the chop!" he declared, regaining some of his earlier haughtiness.
It was Terry's turn to lose his patience. "So what the hell is the Chop?"
"It's how they cut off your head, you sparrow-brain! Chop-chop and all that. You're all gonna die!"
Trevor, having heard most of the discussion, made his own observation. "You're forgetting something, Eggshell. You're in here with us. That means you're going to the chop as well. Peck at that, General!"
The General looked appalled. "Rubbish! Chicken's Legs! Duckling Dung!"
Trevor went in for the kill. "Seen the Farmer's daughter lately have you?"
The General shook his wings in a gesture of denial. "Then you better get used to the idea. If we're for this chop then you are too. Unless that is, you can get us out of here?"
The old bird thought carefully about this as the rest of the flock charged, panic-stricken, around and around the perimeter, almost knocking the four of them through the fence. It was obvious that the tale was spreading.
"I've only seen it once," he said, almost too quietly to be heard above the gobbling throng. "A long time ago, last time there was white-stuff on the ground. I saw it then. The Humans took the rations away after it got dark and the next morning they came to take everybird away...."
"We know all that, Goose-gob!" yelled Tim desperately. "What are you on about?"
The General pecked viciously at Tim's neck. Tim tried to retaliate by leaping at the General with his claws. Trevor and Terry held him back.
"As I was saying...'When the Humans came, the birds in one enclosure, instead of flapping away like Geese on a wild night out, attacked the Humans!"
Trevor gobbled in disbelief. "You're kidding!"
"As the Great Beltsville is white, I'm telling it true. The Humans got a scare, I can tell you. But it wasn't done properly. I mean, they just rushed the Humans, frightened them off. With a bit of the old Talk-Turkey they could have got away. As it was, the Humans came back with sticks and sorted them out good 'n' proper."
"Blow that for a tail-feather!" said Trevor.
Terry was beginning to understand what the General was trying to say. "So how do we stop them from coming back with sticks?"
"That's the easy part," laughed the General. "We don't let them leave. If we all rush the Humans at once and all together, we might be able to flap our way over their bodies and out of the enclosure. From then on it's out of the Pole-barn, over the white-stuff and Swan's-your-Uncle!"

The General surveyed his troops and was proud. His hard work of the previous night had resulted at last in the creation of a formidable fighting force, each bird moulded into a silent, winged flapper, ready and willing to attack on sight, any Human having the temerity to step over the fence and into the enclosure.
He strutted up and down the ranks, giving each a word or two of encouragement, moving a bird to straighten a rank or preening up a loose feather here and there. He checked that Theo-the-Mad was still in position at the rear of the flock. Good tactic that, he thought. When the time came, everybird would rush to get away from Crazy Theo and that meant becoming part of the charge against the Humans!
Trevor, Terry and Tim stood front and centre in the first rank. The General eyed them carefully, keeping a sharp lookout for signs of chickenism.
"Steady, Birds!" he gobbled. "Won't be long now. When I give the word, yell your heads off and follow me. If we all strut together the Humans won't stand a chance."
A sudden tremor passed over the enclosure. The General recognised the signs. The Humans were coming, just as he had said they would. As he took his place at the head of the flock the first of the Humans pointed and laughed at the flock's formation. Unperturbed, the Humans began to clamber over the fence.
The General let them come. He needed them to be in the enclosure before he ordered the charge. Behind him he heard the first sounds of consternation among his troops, but knew it was too late for them to have second thoughts.
With wings out-stretched and head held high, he gave the order to advance and rushed headlong toward the Humans yelling,
"NO PRISONERS!!!!....."