Poppet: Westley Piddle Summer Fayre.

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Part 5. Poppet

Sparky, wot about stoppin’n’noshin’?

No time, mate

Henry shakes his large head, splashing away the rainlick.

No time for noshing? 

Wot I means is, one: I grab Poppet, two: yu slap muttwit, three: we goes noshing, afters

Load of numbers, init?

Henry mate, just give that big brown muttwit a right hammering and I’ll crunch thems numbers

Crunching? Lyk the sound o’ that

C’mon, let’s finish this

The little and large fourlegs spin left and crash down into the undergrowth following the snifz of Poppet and that worrisome brown muttwit. Sniffy colours intensify the closer they trot.

Need some noshing Henry is panting not really built for speed, only submitting

Hold fast Henry.  Gotta get Poppet back to the fayre before our hindlegs start missing us

Who?  Franks?  Nah, he’s banging the piss in the beer tent.  Thinks I’m under the table

Erh, excellent.  Let’s end this – nows!

Poppet is conflicted. Running away into the sunset ain’t supposed to snifz lyk this. Izit?

Cold, damp, dark, versus comfort, warmth, and safety.  Maybe nows the time to go home to Stonks and enjoy that coffee!

Are we nearly there – erh, anywhere yet?

We are my lover Drizzle stops and turns to Poppet.  

A right solid male lyk Drizzle is all her dreams come true, right?  Trouble is, all her dreams also include loads of dry weather, a cozy houseden, and Stonks with food bowl in handpaw. 

Drizzle’s touch changes that in an instant.

Without further ado Drizzle trots ‘round back of Poppet for some well-deserved eightleggers. Sudden weight and Drizzle’s damp front toes are hanging down either side of her flanks.  Large teeth are nuzzling her earflap before firmly clamping down onto her scruff. Not painfully, but in a right solid and intimately submitting grip. 

Poppet is conflicted no more.

Spy ’ems and snifz ’ems!

Hold on, need my second wind Henry lumbers along behind.

The snow drives back the foot that’s slow

Sparky is tingling.  He is Fenrir.  And the time for action is nows.  He streaks forward.

They ask no quarter Henry, and we show no quarter

They – we – wot?

This Drizzle is well fit, thinks Poppet, and wot he’s doing is simply– 

Get off ‘o her! Sparky streaks out of nowhere, crashing into Drizzle’s flank.

Thud!

And bounces off, upside down in the rainlick leaves, paws sticking up in the air.

Yu wot, mate? Drizzle slides off Poppet to stand over the Whippet.  

Great legs tower up into the darkness, merging into sky-blotting head. 

I am Fenrir Sparky croaks, chops dry companion of Tyr, Norse god of war 

And? Drizzle cocks his head, ready to lunge. 

Sparky looks away and, erh – and this is my mate, Henry!

Royt then! Henry lumbers into view any yuz muttwits wanna submit before nosh?

Drizzle leaps away from Sparky. Henry stands foursquare. Poppet feels ignored. 

Aww, mount up again, Drizzle, yu big tonk

The two big fourlegs knock heads, stubs and tails raised respectively.

Snifz yuz

Snifz yuz

Bodies slide past one another, searching and seeking. Butt sniffing all that hunger, desire, disappointment and despair. Both pull away, berserker ready.

Submit! roars Drizzle

Yeah royt huffs Henry. 

They knock heads together once again, and – well, just stand there, shaking earflaps and wagging butts, the daft muttwits.

How yu doing Fudge?

Not so bad, Henry. Yu?

Wot? Sparky jumps upside the right way.

Fudge?  Poppet squeaks, backend still quivering.

Hold up, thought yor name’s Drizzle?

Henry looks at Poppet for a moment nah, this’s Fudge

Unbelievable Poppet steams.

Missing his pleasurable weight is bad enough. Worse, this Fudge is more than happy to stand there shooting the poop with Henry. 

As for Sparky, he drops earflaps and braces for the wrath of a Poppet-denied his coming his way.

Sparky! Yu stupid, little mu–  

Meanwhile, Fudge and Henry are catching up on all the latest.

No sign of yor lost hindlegs then, Fudge?

Nah mate,  sniffed ’ems in Herdwick pooping park beforenows, but – nah!

The two great minds happily peer ‘round abouts the woods.

Nice gaff says Henry, wishing he can live in the woods and not in a small backyard.

Not so bad Fudge replies, content to simply stand with his buddy and snifz in the surroundings. He wanders over to the nearest squirting post and cocks a leg. Henry follows, sniffing Fudge’s squirtz for all the latest intel, before adding a little intel of his own.

Oi, yuz two!  Poppet shatters the bromance moment.  A flaplegs sqwarks in surprise from the branches above. 

And yu she hisses at Sparky stay right there, I ain’t done with yuz yet before marching over to the two great minds.

Right then, Drizzle or Fudge or wotever she barks, before adding softly we still an item, init? 

Item? Drizzle or Fudge looks confused. 

Yes. Us she snarls yu know, a link? 

Fudge looks at Henry for answers.  Henry slobbers a bit before looking at Sparky. All three fourlegs look back at Poppet.

???

It was really, really good. But now… I’ve got to go away! Oh, oh, oh.

Sparky dares to go and stand beside Henry and Fudge – the three fourlegs gawking at Poppet.

Silence hangs heavy in the dark woods.  

The flaplegs sqwarks again. 

Buncha kretins she spits, and flops down to start licking her butt.

Fancy marking some posts? Fudge breaks the moment.

Totally replies Henry.

And just lyk that the two great minds trot off into the woods, abandoning Sparky.

Uh-oh Sparky starts getting tingly as Poppet directs all her fluffed-up blond earflaps frustrations straight at him.

Upon us all, upon us all a little rain must fall. It’s just a little rain oh yeah…

Laters.

“theGibson?” KevLegs is beaming idiotically at Stonks “whenyousaidEDS1275” he pinches out his tee-shirt from his belly “youmeant,thetwin-necked,GibsonEDS1275!”

“corss” Stonks replies “obvs”

“notalottapeopleknowthat” KevLegs admits in wonder, beer glass drooping in one handpaw, tee-shirt pinched out in the other.

“saw’emlive,O2-“ she pokes a handpaw at Jimmy Page.

“noway!” he is stunned into silence. And then, tentatively “aStarWarsfan,also?”

“doesakickinthenutshurt?” she replies, lifting her tiny snout to the sky and scritching happily.

KevLegs fumes every possible shade of orange. A colour of pure happiness wot spreads across Herdwick pooping park, making fourlegs forget wot they’re doing, eating, squirting, eating, sniffing, eating.  Black snout holes everywhere, twitching the air.

Don’t tell me… Poppet starts in amazement.

Yeah, both into Zep answers Sparky with intense satisfaction.

“nonsesense,nonsense,nonsense” scritches KevLegs

“nonsesense,nonsense,andmorenonsense” scritches Stonks. 

They wobble off together, the two hungry fourlegs well and truly forgotten.

This fayre’s the dog’s plum bobs Sparky snifz at all the nosh.

Sure Poppet shakes earflaps been disqualified, dogged and dumped, wot’s not to lyk? 

They trot towards the nosh stalls.

Kicking off with tandoori kebabs this end he suggests.

And noshing ‘it right up to Cornish pasties that end she finishes. 

Wanted a woman, never bargained for yuz

Sparky is feeling tingly all over.

▪ ▪ ▪

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Poppet: Wesley Piddle Summer Fayre Part Three.

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Part 3. Poppet

 “you’relate!” Armitage scritches. 

“keepyourhaton,we’rehere,ain’twe?” 

“stickthisnumberonthedoggy” Armitage thrusts a No.11 rosette into her handpaw.

Stonks and Poppet stand at the edge of the showground with loads other fourlegs. Sitting, reclining, licking at essentials, and all hard eyeballing Poppet.

Oi, shaggy teets, brains not beauty wanted, init? Sasha, the cute Shih Tzu, spits. 

Shuttit, fluffy butt growls Poppet.

Ooo, stupid animaux  Marie-Antoinette, the French Poodle shrills at thems both no beauty, no brains, no intellect-tuels.  No clarss!

Stonks pulls out a curry comb, spinning silver from Poppet’s fur “needbrushing,needbrushing”

I’ll bang this Poppet’s beauty dazzles not so hard, izit?

“numberten,numberten” Armitage scritches, making all the fourlegs wince “getyerdoggyhere,NOW”

“isthatyou?” Stonks is checking the rosette number on Poppet’s collar.

Is that me – wot?  daft hindlegs with all their daft numbers, wotever thems are.

That’ll be me, sir Gunther, the curly-haired Standard Schnauzer marches onto the showground number ten

Him! Sasha is shaking earflaps in disgust would be that jerry melt, wunnit?  

Attention, attention, muttwits all Gunther barks fiercely at his audience now follows ze demonstration of right posture, fine precision and ze German art of canine intellektuelles

He trots precisely to the designated starting point. 

I am prepared! he instructs fräuleinmate, his hindlegs companion.

“startingnow“ Armitage scritches“dogswotpoop,willbedisqualified“

He is one big German poop! Sasha barks.

Vatch and learn Gunther barks loudly sad English muttwits, French muttwits, Japanese muttwits…miscreant mutt-

“disqualified!“ Armitage scritches.

Vot!

“toomuchbarking,zerointelligence“

Zero intellek– sputters Gunther Ha! On four legs or two I am, by far, ze most intellektuelle. Sir, be advised, I am ver– 

“enoughnoise,disqualified…NEXT!“

Hoots of derision explode from English, French, Japanse an other miscreant muttwits. 

Schnell fräuleinmate, let’s spritzen some German roundlegs 

Gunther marches from the field of battle, disdainful snout held aloft.

“numberteleven,numberELEVEN” Armitage scritches “bringthedoggy,andnobarking”

“OhPoppet,that’sus” Stonks almost trips over the rope barrier to get at the showring.

Cultureless beetch the French Poodle daintily trills at Poppet.

In less time than it takes a large fourlegs to squirtz three times, end on end, Drizzle has already stuffed his snout with pizza bits, pork rinds, fried noodles, doner kebab, and sticks of chicken satay.  He indolently cocks a leg against the corner of the Cornish pasties and starts to – 

Put a stopper on that! PD Duncan barks, stepping into view, PC Andersen on a lead beside him.

Snifz yu, big fella Drizzle sez, mid squirtz and stopper wot?

Cocking a leg lyk yu owns the place

Squirtings against the law, officer? Drizzle raises his solid black snout, eyeballing the Thames Valley Police Dobermann.

Yes. Within proximity of hindlegs nosh Duncan eyeballs back, unblinking, snout twitching easily.

Within wot?

Close to, nearby, within range of…

So, whys that then?

Coz fourlegs are not permitted to squirtz in non-designated squirting areas

Hmm Drizzle flashes a big maw of teeth, slowly lowering his cocked leg.

Duncan steps forward to bump snouts thems are the squirting rules of law. Understood streetlegs?

Drizzle wants to fight. He snifz ready for it, expecting the PD to do the same, but the Dobermann stands rock steady, relaxed, disinterested.

Drizzle snorts and backs off. 

Thought so Duncan watches him slouch away and disappear into the crowds. 

Shaking his head, he forgets Drizzle and eyeballs PC Andersen right then, ‘bout time for some well-earned police lunch, constable?

Rainlick, wotz been dripping on and off all morning nows decides to turn it full on.

Better find some earflaps shelter

Earflaps battened down, Drizzle quickens his pace towards the pooping woods behind the park, his homeden. He stops in mid trot, snout up, sniffing colours of extreme interest: female colours. Lots of ‘ems.

Ah-ha!

One colour is particularly overpowering. Snout holes twitching – a sporting female on the cusp of ragging it red.

An ugly grey Whippet is eyeballing him from the distance.

Mind yor own dinner he barks in his direction.

Trotting on he soon finds himself amongst a pack of fourlegs.  Females all turn and snifz in his direction.  Their daft hindlegs companions don’t notice, eyeballing straight ahead at something – wotz the same direction that overpowering colour is sniffing from. He pushes through the pack to snout it out for himself.

Snifz vous some Frenchie whispers at him. Ordinarily that’s enough to get some sporting action going but all he wants now is to follow his snout towards the most exciting colour he’s ever sniffed. Today anyways.

In front of Drizzle, across an empty space, Armitage is scritching nonsense at Stonks. Drizzle begins licking his chops.

“nonsense,andnonsense”

And Stonks, in turn, is scritching nonsense at Poppet “turnleft”

..and turning left

More scritching.

..turning right

..sitting, lying down, and staying

Ha, we’re burying it, Stonks!

Erh, wot – wot?

Nah, easier I come with yu, init, not wait ‘round abouts here? 

“STAY!”

Nah, I’m coming with yuz.  Definitely coming with yu–

 “disqualified!”

“leaveoff,youold-erh,mrArmitage” Stonks is flicking handpaws at Armitage.

“Isaiddisqualified-nonsensenonsense-idiotcanine”

Givvus another chance, mate

“DISQUALIFIED!”

All of a sudden she don’t care.  She ain’t listening, ain’t sniffing, and ain’t being intellectual.  Coz Poppet’s life is being turned upside down, inside out.

Onto the show ground trots the most dog-damned solid stud muffin she’s ever sniffed. Trots right up to her without a care in the world and bumps snoutz.

Snifz yu, kitten he nuzzles

S-nifz – snifz yu

“PoppetNO,PoppetNO!”

Poppet ain’t part of this world no more.  She allows this stranger to go do something no other fourlegs is ever allowed to do beforenows.  To trot ‘round back and snout her necessaries.

Ooooh-ahhhhh female fourlegs from all ‘round the show area swoon in unison.

Before Stonks can overcome her shock, before Armitage can scritch any more nonsense – Poppet is flying for her life.  Following this wonderfully sniffy fourlegs off the show ground.  Flying headlong towards the exit of Herdwick pooping park, and beyond. 

“Poppet,comebackhere,youslut”

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Poppet : Westley Piddle Summer Fayre. Part Two.

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Part 2. Poppet

The bright hot ball is high in the sky.  Herdwick pooping park is full of hindlegs enjoying the summer fayre. 

“Cockfest,Poppet,purecockfest!” Stonks sweats orange-sniffy lust. One handpaw covering her chops in a frenzy of excitement, other tightly clutching Poppet’s lead.

Stop it! Yor sh-strangling me

Stonks don’t listen.  She’ surveying the lie of the land.  First, she spies the large area for best of show. Second, the lavvies. Third, the beer tent.  And fourth, eyeballs lock on, coordinate, and memorise all the fit looking cocksters wobbling ‘round abouts.  

Sh-stop it!

“oops!sorry”

Nows her turn.  Able to breathe again, Poppet lifts her snout, both snout holes twitching.  First, she snifz out other fourlegs – zero immediate threats. Second, she snifz for fit males – zero immediate eightleggers.  

Pff!

Third, the line of nosh stalls all sniffing right tasty: Greggs, KFC, Pizzahut, PizzaRiot, Jimmy Thai’s, the Istanbool kebab joint, Fong’s Noodles, and Best Cornish Bakery with its eyeball-popping variety of Cornish pasties. 

Blimmey! Get a nosh-load of all that 

As it happens, Stonks starts wobbling fast towards the hindlegs marker posts.

“needthelavvy” she scritches “needaslash” 

A sniffy blue purply-sniffy mist billows out from a row of portaloos stuck close to the entrance of the park, spreading its colours everywhere. Poppet knows the portaloo marker posts is where Stonks squirtz. Wotz wrong with just squirting on the ground, against a lamppost or corner of a wall? Hindlegs got no sense.

Hurry up Stonks, noshing time

Stonks wobbles inside.  A moment later Poppet can snifz today’s brekkers and yesterday’s take-out dinner. 

Two grey furrylegs are chasing each other across the branches above the portaloos, heading towards the nosh stalls.

Thems want noshing, too

While Stonks does her thing Poppet snifz out all the usual muttwits attracted to the nosh.

Greedy muttwits, the load of ’ems

Over by rural crafts tent are the Jack Russell brothers, Nutz and Boltz, a right pair of muttwits. Over by the beer tent is Gitorrf!, scrounging something alcoholic for Halfleg. Closer by is Giblets, the young Boxer, all big chest and tight little rear end. Thinks he’s dog’s answer to all the females.

Ah doggit, please don’t turn round as Giblets turns round, sniffing the air and eyeballing Poppet. He starts strutting her way, pulling along his hindlegs companion.

Oi, hello darling, Snifz yu

Snifz yu too, Giblets, but nows not a good time

They bump snoutz.

As it happens ‘nows’ is always a good time

Giblets muscles his way towards her rear, his stump wagging in anticipation of Afghan eightleggers. Poppet snaps at his earflaps.

Leave off, doggy

Ouch! he squeals.

He tries for another rear-ender, both fourlegs jostling ‘round in a tight circle.

Yu ain’t my type yer squash-snouted, short-haired mutt and gives him another nip.

Giblets leaps out of range.

“Oi,Giblets” his hindlegs companion scritches, hauling him off.

Laters, yer nasty witch

Nevers!

Poppet shakes her head, soft blond earflaps shaking it all about.  And that there’s the problem, init? Every dog-eared muttwit with plum bobs attached wants to try his chance, at every opportunity.

And none of thems are mister right! 

“that’sbetterPoppet,feelhumanagain” Stonks steps out the portaloo, shaking it side to side while wobbling down the three steps to the grass.  

“comeon,needtobangthepiss,beforetheshow” she makes towards the beer tent, hauling along Poppet.

Inside the beer tent the wotz-a-nice-dog-like-yuz-doing-in-a-place-like-this only gets worse.

Snifz yu love-bug!

Henry leave off, mate

The slab-sided English mastiff bangs into her suggestively submit, girl, submit

Woz a time Henry had all the big gun assets. But after the vets, sadly, he’s out of ammo.

Henry, I loves yers to death really, but…

Big Knickers ‘enry, nows

Yeah, so I heard, but no thanks

SUBMIT!

Nah means nah, gettit?

“leaveit,Henry,LEAVEIT!” Franks, his companion tries hauling him off, Guinness in one handpaw, English Mastiff in the other.  But Henry ain’t having any hauling off.

Only one thing for it Poppet howls an ear-splitting territory fit Get Away!  Get Away!  Get Away! all gnashing teeth and flying blond braids.

The beer tent flaps outwards in the pressure of fourlegs barking.  Franks tugging, hauling, dragging a bewildered Henry out of the tent in a shower of Guinness.

“naughtyPoppet,wot’swrongwithyu,naughtyPoppet,embarrassingmelikethat!” Stonks tap-tap-taps each word on Poppet’s chain.

Wotz wrong with me? Me?

“andstopyapping,yernastycreature” Stonks scritches in a rising red-sniffy temper, raising her handpaw to give Poppet a right slapping. Some old hindlegs in a white smock and white trilby hatfurs is giving thems hard eyeballs over at the Pims punch table. 

“oh,shite” Stonks smoothly turns slapping handpaw into waving handpaw “Armitage,thebleedin’judge,init” and starts wobbling fast towards the tent flaps “let’sgetouttaherePoppet”.

“notsofast,younglady” Armitage wobbles to block the way.

Pff! Good one, Stonks

“ha,finedisplayofcaninecontrol” Armitage scritchy slurs down his long snout, alcohol yellow-snifz pouring off him.

“erh…stagefrightbeforethebestofshow,misterArmitage” Stonks flutters. 

Armitage sways on his footpaws ”bestof…wot?”

“bestofshow,misterArmitage” Stonks repeats.

“cancelled!”  Armitage scritches, belching. 

Erh? Poppet slips an involuntary squirtz of shock.

“cc-cancelled?” Stonks gasps.

“aye,cancelled,andreplacedwith…doggyintelligence”

“dd-doggy?”

Intelligence! Wotz that?

“so,goodluckwiththat,ha,ha,ha” Armitage gurgles on his Pims.

Poppet’s turn to be half-dragged outside the beer tent, front paws bouncing off the grass.

“thatsillyold– ” Stonks scritches under her breath. 

Slow down yu ch-choking me again

“doggyintelligence!”

Ahhgaakaa…

Stonks stops, Poppet wheezing. A strong handpaw grips Poppet under the jaw and thrusts her snout level with Stonks’ own miniature hooter “listentome,Poppet” she threatens ‘yougonnawinthis…or,it’stheChinesetakeway”

Chnntkkssswy?

“beautyain’tenough” she continues “needbrains,too”

Needs wot?

“EDICATION,girl!”

?…

Poppet don’t have a hope in hell.  Stonks ain’t joking about the Chinese take-away, neither. They nosh fourlegs, thems pagans.

All Poppet wants right this moment is to trot away for good. Preferably sniffing behind some handsome stud muffin! 

If only she squats and squirtz on the grass.

Brekkers over and Drizzle is still hungry.  The clouds are working themselves up to give it a good green-sniffing rainlicking with thems endless whooshing scratchy noises. Seems lyk there’s never a time when rainlick ain’t making Drizzle wet. 

Ah, leave off he accuses the clouds noshing first, yer buggas

And that leaves the next big question: wotz on the noshing menu? 

Sitting on his haunches outside the High Street HSBC he weighs his noshing options on one front paw. Toe one: trot back down the High Street and hit Greggs. 

Nah, been there, noshed that

Toe two: turn left into Huntsville Road and hit Chuckles chippy.

Fish? Nah, need nosh with legs

Toe three: wander down Nelson Ave and hit KFC.  Chicken strips.  Chicken wings. Or chicken anything really, in thems bins ‘round back.

Sounds lyk a plan 

He quickly follows his snout, rainlick dripping from earflaps.

As it happens, KFC is close to Herdwick pooping park.  Gob loads of sniffy colours are wafting out the park. Overriding thems blue-purply hindlegs portaloos is the chop-slobbery orange-snifz of nosh.  Lots of nosh.

Worth a butcher’s hook he quickens his pace.

His snout don’t lie. Plenty’s going on in Herdwick pooping park. It points him through the front gate into a wonderful world of meaty-leg colours. 

Right noshfest, this! 

But nosh is not always enough. Eyeballing thems two Jack Russell brothers playing with some hindlegs pups invades his good humour. He recalls the colourful memories of his own hindlegs pups – lyk a sharp, confusing snifz in both snout holes. 

Ah… memory snifz, only.

Shakes earflaps. Shakes off the fugue.

In the heres and nows, what he really needs is a right tasty noshing followed by a bit of sporty eightleggers.  He stops and poops on the grass. Yes indeedy!  Contemplating a sporting mood is actually putting him into a hot-bloodied sporting mood.

Get ready juicy butts, I’m a’coming he licks his whiskers and shakes his way into the park.

”Going,goingtoChicago” 

Sorry but I can’t take yuz

Snifz of fresh fourlegs poop whacks Sparky up the snout. A foreign snifz he don’t recognise.  Some fourlegs in Westley Piddle he ain’t bumped snoutz with!  Worrisome. He starts tingling all over.

 “goingdown,goingdownnow” KevLegs scritches before noticing Sparky, trembly all over “wot’s upmate?” squatting down, snout to snout “Sparkymate?youalright?” 

KevLegs suddenly points with one handpaw “StarWarsdisplay,let’sgocheckitout”

There’s a stranger in the camp! Sparky raises muzzle and barks snifz yuz…Snifz yuz?

“maybe,I’llmeetPrincessLeia,haha” 

Sparky looks up with big eyeballs, twitching his snout at an awful sniffy loneliness suddenly rising off KevLegs. He hopes KevLegs can snifz up his own female. Guaranteed to make packmommy happy.  And a happy packmommy means plenty of happy food treats dropping under the table.  Happily, guaranteed, forever!

The star Wars exhibition is crap, corss. Local toy store displaying some naff spin-off cac, not even original 70s trilogy stuff.

“complete,shite!” KevLegs dismisses it and wobbles away.

“pissoffthen,HarrisonFord” the hindlegs vendor scritches after him “gostickyerlightsaberup–

Shut it, yer sniffy git! Sparky tugs at his lead and growls, still tingling from that worrisome stranger and in no mood for additional ag.

“harrisonforddon’tusealightsaber,yerknob” KevLegs shakes his head, disbelievingly.

Some hindlegs got no culture Sparky agrees.

Trotting on. 

Snifz yuz, Poppet

Snifz yuz, Sparky they bump snoutz.  

Sparky stares at her with eyeballs of pure worship.  All silver braids, sharp snout and glittery eyeballs. The fittest shield maiden in West Pid, no argument.

Getta load of that nosh she pants.

Yu in that dog intellectuals show, then? he asks, tingling more than ever.

Cors.  All dog, all intellectuals, that’s me shaking her pretty earflaps.

Well…all dog, anyways Sparky wags his tail in a big smile.

Yor so funny Sparky, I just wish..

..I was bigger, stronger, furrier, and not a whippet?

Well, yeah

“that’sanEDS1275,init?” Stonks scritches in amazement, staring at KevLegs belly 

“wot?” KevLegs mumbles, surprised that a female hindlegs has actually noticed his existence, ‘part from his mom.

“coolT-shirt”

Wotz she scritching about? Sparky looks up, equally surprised.

Forget it sighs Poppet she’ll eyeball any hindlegs with tackle

Tackle?

“comealongPoppet,” Stonks pulls Poppet away “wegotashowtowin”

Nice seeing yu Sparky

Me too – oh, and careful of that stranger?

Wot stranger?  

Both fourlegs prod at the air.

That stranger.

Urh? Poppet lifts her snout higher and snifz harder hmm!

KevLegs can’t stop eyeballing his own belly. The first hindlegs female that’s ever talked to him without a shop counter in between. 

Try not to fart, Kev

“Oh,youmeanthe…?” he starts to reply, recognition dawning, but she’s walking away, already history. 

“comeonSparkymate,I’mhungry” he sullenly scritches.

That’s the spirit, mate! hauling KevLegs towards the nosh stalls kicking off with tandoori kebabs this end and noshing ‘it all the way down to Cornish pasties that end. Ripe plan?

Kev lets off a whooooosh of breaking news in agreement.

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Poppet and the Westley Piddle’s Summer Fayre

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Part 1. Poppet

can’t heart it over Dazed and Confused.  Packmommy bashes the bannisters but fails to get his attenti Westley Piddle’s summer fayre is back in town. Poppet, the willowy Afghan blond, is sort of humpy coz she’s expected to win first prize at Best of Show.  Wot she really wants to win is some sniffy sweet eightleggers with Drizzle, the fittest muttwit ‘round abouts.

A particularly quite morning in Westley Piddle, that unremarkable town on the Thameslick between Bisham and Cock Marsh. The only sound a drip of rainlick from damp trees. Stillness. Peace. The air holding its breath. Until, that is, some daft flaplegs decides peace is dead and sqwarks.  Soon enough, flaplegs across the whole gaff are sqwarking out of their tiny minds.  Mental.

As it happens, a convoy of roundlegs are growling into Herdwick pooping park – wot upsets the flaplegs in the first place.  Now, sniffy looking hindlegs are wobbling all over carrying stuff to build tents, arcades, pavilions and noshing stalls.  The long-awaited West Pid summer fayre is back. 

The fourlegs morning chorus can’t wait to bark all about it – 

Helloooo, here we goooo

Gonna be a right noshfest

Chicken, beef, lamb, loadsa mammal-leggy nosh 

Kicking off down the park, bowl-mates

Oh. My. Dog.

All in all, not a particularly quite morning in Westley Piddle.

Sparky, the tingly Whippet, is out early with Kevin, his hindlegs companion. KevLegs to the intimates.  Neon green Beats wrapped across his head furs, KevLegs is oblivious to flaplegs, fourlegs and sniffy hindlegs in the park. He ain’t hearing nothing but sounds of the 70’s.

 “Ah-ah, ah!” scritches the muted sound of Robert Plant from the Beats.

“Ah-ah, ah!” KevLegs scritchy scritches right along with him.
We come from the land of the ice and snow Sparky joins thems for the next verse from the midnight sun, where the hot springs flow

Sparky is tingly – coz tingly is chilled-looking and ain’t nervous-looking. Whippets move in jerky spasms. Each step of a Whippet paw is lyk being nervously poked in the eyeball.  Stopping to cock a jerky leg is a poke. Stepping along the street is a continuous poke.  Even standing still is a poke of sorts. 

Not Sparky, coz he’s into 70’s rock. A jingly Whippet hammering to the gods. 

“Ah-ah, ah!” KevLegs scritches “ah-ah, ah!” he eyeballs Sparky lost in songs of immigrants.  

“Ouronlygoal,willbethewesternshore…Ah-ah, ah! Sohurryup,and…erh…pissmate,gottagettowork”

So now yu better stop and rebuild all yor ruins
Sparky and KevLegs. Westley Piddle’s power rock duo.

“for,peaceandtrustcanwintheday,despiteallyour…erh…lackofpissing” KevLegs laughs so violently he farts.

Uh-Oh Sparky needs to finish his squirtz and get KevLegs home, fast.  

From the snifz of it KevLegs is starting his daily gas probs. A very sniffy problem, indeed.  But Sparky adores his KevLegs. Coz life with KevLegs is all about vibes.  Of rock.  Real rock – not alt, not goth, not thrash, not prog, not any of thems wannabe rock sounds.  Just the three riff genuine article: 70’s rock, as taught him by KevLegs and Led Zep. Sparky loves it. Maybe that’s why he believes he’s not just a tingly whippet – but Fenrir, the gigantic wolfmate of Tyr, that Norse god of war. 

“andnowforsomebreakingnews,Sparky…” KevLegs teases Sparky with a fart.  Sparky wags tail in adoration.  The snifz of last night’s Rogan Josht intoxicating.  He trots homewards as fast as tingly paws can trot. 

Valhalla, I am coming!

Poppet, the Afghan temptress of three summers, admires herself in front of the hallway mirror. Excited by the snifz of the summer fayre being hammered into shape down the road, across the junction, round that curvy bend, over Nelson Avenue and slap bang in the middle of Herdwick pooping Park.  Shaking her head, strawberry blond earflaps fizz across big innocent eyeballs. Her long hair is braided in Viking locks, coat curried to glossy silver perfection.

One fit looking fourlegs she admits but… and bumps her snout against the mirror fit enough to win?

Mirror image trembles to the creak creak creak of Sharonpackmate on the stairs.  Stonks, as she’s known to the intimates, appears in new clothfurs.  Poppet always snifz her in new clothfurs.  Wotz wrong with just one fur, lyk wot Poppet wears all the time.  Hindlegs ain’t sensible. 

 “watchafink,Poppet?” Stonks bounces off the last step, spinning round “likethecolour?Electricvanilla”

Poppet don’t know wot to think and only twitches her snout.

“comeonthenPoppet,let’sgetout,andseewhatcock’sabout” Stonks opening chops sniffy with breakfast to lick her small shiny teeth.

Mirror inspection over, Stonks unlocks the front door and wobbles down the garden path, through the garden gate and into Hazelmarsh Road. Poppet follows in shimmering strides.

Stonks lyks to walk up front, complaining she don’t lyk looking at Poppet’s ass all the time.  Poppet has two problems with that.  First of all, Poppet ain’t got the kind of tail up, pink rosebud pooping-hole ass always showing 24/7 lyk wot some fourlegs have ‘round abouts Westley Piddle – Poppet’s ass is a feather soft waterfall tail hiding her pooping hole. Second of all, coz Sharonpackmate’s got a right stonker of an ass, sadly.

“Poppet,don’tshitandshameme” Stonks scritches, yanking on the lead “propershittingspot,only”

As always

Music is scritching from a radio where two male hindlegs are wobbling about on some scaffolding.  One has his clothfurs off, revealing a furless chest.

“cockhim!” Stonks scritches breathlessly. 

The two hindlegs are eyeballs-on Stonks. Sniffing her up and down.  Their orange-sniffy lust striking Poppet’s snout from across the street,. 

“ignorethem,Poppet” Stonks yanks at her lead. Poppet knows Stonks has the hooter for sniffing out testosterone-heavy hindlegs – almost equal to her own snout for sniffing out lusty male fours.  

“don’tencouragethem,toomuch”  Stonks flashes eyeballs “butstartpeeing,rightnow”  

Poppet dutifully stops and squirtz, long enough to concentrate the hindlegs’ lust and short enough not to satisfy any of it.

“ellodarling,nicedog!” one of thems scritches, Stonks enjoying the attention.

Happy now?

“comealongPoppet” she wobbles up Hazelmarsh Road, grinding her wide-load wiggle.  

Poppet reckons thems male hindlegs eyeballs are staying well locked onto a female pooping hole right til the end of the road. Surely not her own!

Drizzle emerges out of woods dripping with rainlick and the yellow squirtz wot marks his territory. Countryside gives way to West Pid. streets lined with hedges and brick walls, behind which are hindlegs housedens, families, and happy fourlegs.  He can snifz the head-patting happiness inside those housedens.  Raising his muzzle to the sky, sniffing, searching, wondering wot his own head-patting hindlegs are doing.  And where they are now?

Snifz yuz. Get away from here  fourlegs growl from housedens 

Earflaps drooping under the brief summer rainlick Drizzle remembers being inside his own houseden, warning off streetlegs outside his territory.  Memories give way to reality.  Now he’s a streetlegs. It is wot it is. He trots on.

Snifz yuz. I’m gonna hurt yuz when I get out

No packmates? No one cares, mate

My hindlegs, mine!

Snifz any closer and lose thems plum bobs

Fourlegs bark, paws banging against windows. He ignores.

Drizzle don’t miss his hindlegs family.  That’s coz, everything is always in the heres and nows for fourlegs. Any moment nows his pack family will return to reclaim him.  Any moment nows. No worries til then.

An ugly black and white scratch arches its back and hisses.  Drizzle passes by without a snifz, in no mood to be arguing with Scratch so early in the morning. He’s famished and wants noshing. A brekkers of sausage and bacon is just the ticket. Two fat pork sausages: gone in two fat bites.  Stringy bacon held down with paws, shredded between teeth.

Drizzle trots through The Cut and into Westley Piddle High Street, snout pointing full speed ahead towards Greggs.

That’ll work!  

 “beendazedandconfused-“

So long it’s not true. Wanted a woman…

Sparky stretches out on the end of KevLeg’s bed, happily eyeballing him air guitar in front of the wardrobe mirror.

“lotsofpeopletalking,fewofthemknow-“

Soul of a wom–

“wascreatedbelow,yeah!” KevLeg’s strains his back under thems massive chords. His wind-milling hand bashes the Monsters of Rock lightshade on the bedroom ceiling, swinging it all over the place. 

“ready!” KevLeg’s packmommy scritches from the kitchen – also from below.

Sparky pricks up ear flaps at all the scritching but KevLegs own tiny earflaps on.  “Oi.yer.useless.git” she scritches with every thump “getdownhere,muppet!”

Oi, Jimmy P.  Brekkers, mate

“..sweetlittlebaby,Iwantyouagai-wot?”

Nosh init, yer spanner Sparky jumps off the bed and snoutz open the bedroom door. Packmommy is standing there, mug of tea in handpaw.  Seeing her in the mirror, KevLeg’s wind-milling pose becomes a lightbulb fixing pose in the Monsters of Rock lightshade. This surprises Sparky. The Monsters of Rock lightbulb works fine, dunnit?

rightmuppet” Packmommy snorts.

Rockmuppet Sparky agrees.

Sparky lies under the brekkers table alert for bits of cornflakes, toast, or bacon butty. His head on the kitchen linoleum, snout touching KevLeg’s footpaw. A constant I’m here and hungry reminder.

“yerdon’tgetit,mom,” KevLegs is scritching through his munching “notlikegoingtothesupermarket,izzit?” he munches, “can’tjustpickcrumpetoffthefrozencounter,canyou?”

 Crumpet? not sure wot sorta nosh that is but there’s right juicy sausages down at the su–

“gotothefayre,Kevin,andfindagirl,”

Thickly buttered crust of toast drops in front of Sparky. He inspects it with a critical snifz before noshing it.

“anicegirl…anygirl””

A big legged woman

Packmommy’s chair creaks as she grabs for something across the table. 

“that’sallyouroldmom’sasking”

“rightmom,checkitoutlaters,” his handpaw reaches down and sticks a rasher of bacon in Sparky’s eye “won’twe,Sparky?”

We will? the orange-sniffy bacon almost masks KevLeg’s purple-sniffy farts.  But Sparky knows the purple gas snifz is always there.  Gas flowing throughout KevLegs lyk those Tinylegs do under West Pid’s pavements.  It don’t matter.  Wotever KevLegs does don’t matter one bit to Sparky.

For some reason, packmommy wants KevLegs to meet a female hindlegs.  Wot Sparky thinks ridiculous, lyk. Coz he don’t need any hindlegs female. 

Coz yu got me!

“anicegirl,yerdaftmuppet” she scritches hopefully, dumping more toast on top of Sparky.

To squeeze my lemon till the juice ru– yuck, Marmite’s on this bit!

Sparky noshes it anyways.

KevLegs toys are scattered ‘round abouts Sparky’s sleeping mat.  Teeth-bitten ball KevLegs loves throwing that Sparky must forever go fetch. Slob-covered leather bone KevLegs loves to try and pull from Sparky’s mouth. And, KevLegs favourite, that well-chewed sqwarky chicken leg.  Sparky forces himself to rise to the occasion, pretending it’s him who really loves chewing it.

KevLegs stands at the front door of the houseden wearing his bestest T-shirt, an over-washed Jimmy Page on double-necked Gibson. 

“Comeonmate”

Sparky leaps into the air, spinning all four legs to land perfectly on the sleeping mat and scoots for the front door.

“let’sgodownHerdwick” KevLegs scritches, Sparky’s lead in one handpaw.

More to come from Usual Muttwits.

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