Sparky Part 1

Swallow’s Georgian Fayre has arrived at last and all the fourlegs are feeling the heat of the Best of Breed Show – Poppet, the Willowy Afghan blond is determined to win at any cost…until along comes Drizzle. Stepping out of the local woods appears the best looking male fourlegs she’s ever sniffed.  Best of Breed flies out the window as excitement, danger and escape come sniffing at her rear end.  Only a fourlegs can stop this right dog’s dinner from upsetting everything to save the day.  Or can he?

 

1.

 

It is a particularly quite morning in the small Buckinghamshire town of Swallow. The air sniffs freshly.  The crack of damp trees in the woods echoes across Herdwick pooping Park and over the drinkThames. Quietness.  Stillness.  The air holds its breath.

Until some flaplegs decides to clear its throat with a sqwark.  And then its joined by some more tiny minded flaplegs and soon the whole dog dam wood is sqwarking like the end of the world.  By this time, a large growling roundlegs turns up and drives into the park.  Some rough looking hindlegs jump out and start unloading lumber to build the pavilions.  The long-awaited Georgian Fayre is finally coming back to Swallow.

Beforenow it was a particularly quiet day.

 

Helloooo ooo ooo the first of Swallow’s fourlegs wakes up.

Ha – loooooooooo another answers.

Followed immediately by a fourlegs chorus of Ha ha halooooo

Howooooooooo

Hoo Hoo Hoo

Hi there..

Huh!

 

Sparky, the tingly Whippet, is out early with Johnpackmate.  Johnpackmate is oblivious to the friendly hello’ing of fourlegs thanks to the bright pink beats wrapped across his head furs. He isn’t hearing anything except the sounds of the 70s.

“Ah-ah, ah!” calls Johnpackmate, nicknamed Johnylegs.
“Ah-ah, ah!” replies the muted sound of Robert Plant.
We come from the land of the ice and snow Sparky sings in unison from the midnight sun, where the hot springs flow

Sparky is tingly cos it is better being considered tingly than being considered nervous. Whippets move their little bodies in jerky spasms and each step of a Whippet paw is like being nervously poked in the eye.

Stopping to cock a jerky leg is a poke in the eye. Stepping in jerky movements along the street is a continuous poke in the eye.  Even standing still is a poke-in-the-eye. And, besides all that, Sparky is into rock. Better to be jingly than nervous when you’re into hammer of the gods.

“Ah-ah, ah!” Johnylegs croaks.  “Ah-ah, ah!” He looks down at Sparky, his eyes lost in immigrant song.  

“Ouronlygoalwillbethewesternshore…Ah-ah, ah! sohurryupandpissmate,gottagettowork”

So now you’d better stop and rebuild all your ruins
Sparky and Johnylegs make a great power rock duo.

“forpeaceandtrustcanwinthedaydespiteallyouyrlackofpissing” and Johnylegs laughs to himself so violently he farts.

Sparky knows he needs to bang out the squirt, turn round and get Johnylegs home, fast.  From the sniff of it Johnylegs is starting his daily IBS. A sniffy problem, obviously.  But Sparky adores his Johnylegs, despite him being an overweight fat f-

and five summers of life are a wonderful experience of sounds and sniffs in his company.  Sounds of rock.  Real rock – not metal, not alt, not goth, not thrash, not prog, not any of those wannabe rock sounds.  Just the three bar genuine article: 70s rock, as taught him by Johnylegs and Led Zep. Sparky loves it. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t even consider himself just a tingly whippet – but imagines himself as Fenrir, the gigantic wolfmate of Tyr, the Norse god of war.

“andnowforsomebreakingnews,Sparky” Johnylegs farts again.  The sniff of last night’s Rogan Josht is intoxicating.  Sparky ramps up his tingly pace homewards.

Valhalla, I am coming!

 

2.

Poppet, the Afghan temptress of three summers, stands in front of the hallway mirror, admiring herself. She sniffs out the Georgian Fayre being hammered into shape from just 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 locks fizz across her big innocent eyes.

You are some fit looking gash she admits. but girl she stares hard are you drop dead fit enough to win best of breed at the Swallow’s Georgian Fayre?

Her image trembles to the thud creak thud of Sharonpackmate on the stairs.  If Poppet knew what an elephant was she would recognise Sharonpackmate instantly, except Sharonpackmate compliments the look with a mini-skirt and vanilla-blond hair, tinged green and pink on the ends.

“watchafinkPoppet?” she bounces off the last step “likethecolour? Electricvanilla”

Sharonpackmate is also drenched in a perfume that makes the whole houseden sniff purple. Poppet twitches her nose.

“comonthenPoppet,let’sgetoutandseewhatcock’sabout” Sharonpackmate leers at herself in the mirror, licking lipstick off tiny sharp teeth.

She bangs open the front door, crashes back the garden gate and emerges into Hazelmarsh Road, demure as an icebreaker.

Poppet trips along in silky strides behind, diminutive in her wake.  Sharonpackmate likes to walk up front, complaining she don’t like looking full time at a fourlegs’ ass every time she steps out into the street.  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 like some fourlegs have around Swallow – Poppet’s ass is a feather soft waterfall sort of tail that demurely covers her pooping hole. Second of all, Poppet’s pooping hole ass is a dog damn site more pleasing to looking at than the sun-eclipsing pooping hole ass of Sharonpackmate. Poppet must walk offset of that monster just to have any chance of seeing anything of the world ahead.

“Poppet,don’tshitandshameme” Sharonpackmate yanks on the lead “untilwe’reatPoppet’sshittingspot”

I’m not that kinda girl

Music is blaring from a radio across the street where two young hindlegs males are working on some scaffolding.  One has his clothes furs off, showing off his six pack.

“cockthosetwo!” Sharonpackmate pants, her sun-eclipsing ass tightening up in anticipation.

The two hindlegs are eyes-on Sharonpackmate. Sniffing her up and down.  Poppet sniffs their own excitement breaking out all over their hairless bodies.

“ignorethemPoppet” Sharonpackmate yanks at the lead. Poppet knows Sharonpackmate has a gift for sniffing male excitement equal only to her own.  Sharonpackmate is one heavy female hindlegs, but in instances of male attention she assumes high-stepping filly mode. “don’tencouragethem” as she flashes a once only invitation. Same moment she stops dead in the water to let Poppet have a squirt. Just enough quirt to fully concentrate the hindlegs’ lust, but not long enough to satisfy it.

“ellodarling,nicedog!” one of them pants.

“comealongPoppet” Sharonpackmate primly yanks her onwards.

 

3.

Drizzle sits in the woods and sniffs the air. All around him large squirting posts drip with early morning drink from the sky. Unseen flaplegs are sqwarking up in the branches.  Drizzle, the large Rhodesian Ridgeback, sniffs at his kingdom.  All the squirting posts in the woods sniff damply with his colour, marking out his territory in mute yellows and greens. He quietly pads from post to post, ignoring the tinylegs scurrying around in the undergrowth, furtively making his way towards the light where the woods end, giving way to the hedges and brick walls of the hindlegs warm housedens; their gardens, their happy fourlegs, and all those horrible scratch.  It hurts when he sniffs the head-patting happiness inside those housedens.  He steps into the daylight and raises his muzzle to the sky, sniffing, searching, wondering where his own head-patting hindlegs family are. They must be so worried about him.

I sniff you. Get away from here some fourlegs growls from inside one of the housedens you don’t belong here, these are my hindlegs not yours

Head down, Drizzle wishes it were him inside the houseden warning off a stray fourlegs outside his personal territory.  But it isn’t. He stops and squirts against the wall. Where are they? Why did they leave him?

Get away, get away, get away the instant replies as his color is sniffed up by the fourlegs inside the housedens.  He hears the banging of paws against a window. He trots on. Somewhere ahead he will find the sniff of his own head-patting hindlegs family.

 

Beforenow, it wasn’t always this way.  The memory of his hindlegs pack loving him, feeding him, providing warmth and shelter shimmers beneath the surface of every sniff of a marker spot, every warning from another fourlegs, every crashing sound of hindlegs walking along the woodland paths and pottering around in their gardens. Beforenow he was happy with his packfamily. Now he is unhappy without his packfamily.  

A fourlegs has no sense of time.  Everything is in the here and now. Any moment now his pack family will return to reclaim him.  Any moment now.

A large black and white scratch sits on the wall, eyeing his approach. Arching its back, it hisses at him in its silly language as Drizzle passes by without even giving it a glance, in no mood to be arguing with Scratch so early in the morning. He’s hungry and a breakfast of sausage and bacon is just the ticket.  His pack family always share breakfast every morning. Two fat pork sausages: gone in two fat bites.  Stringy bacon he enjoys holding down with his four paws and shredding apart with his teeth.  A fond memory encouraged by the overpowering colours pouring from housedens on either side as Drizzle steps into the street leading down from the woods and into Swallow town center. Fourlegs behind windows greet his arrival from both sides of the street

I sniff you. I’m gonna hurt you when I get out…

No one cares you got no packmates, no one cares

..I said I sniff you.  I’m gonna hurt you when I get out

Drizzle trots on. Oblivious. His mind is on greater things cos today is the day. Somewhere ahead, in the town of Swallow, he surely will pick up the sniff of his pack family. There’s a lot of noise coming from Herdwick pooping park.  Beforenow, the last place he sniffed the comfort of his packfamily.  He picks up his pace and heads towards the park.  Yes. Today’s the day.

 

4.

“beendazedandconfused-“

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

Sparky sits on the end of Johnyleg’s bed, constantly watching his beloved Johnylegs air guitar in front of the wardrobe mirror.

“lotsofpeopletalking’,fewofthemknow-“

Soul of a woman was created below

“yeah!” as Johnyleg’s arches his back and air guitars those most massive and vital chords of Page perfection at his Monsters of Rock lightshade on the bedroom ceiling.

“yertea’sready”

Sparky pricks up his ear flaps at Johnymom shouting from downstairs, competing with the music. Sparky feels the banging of the bannisters as Johnymom tries to get his attention.  “Oi,yeruselessgit” she bangs with every word “yertea’sreadyyermuppet!!”

“..sweetlittlebaby,Iwantyouagai-what?”

Your tea’s ready bell end Sparky jumps off the bed and noses at the bedroom door, prying it open. Johnymom stands there, a mug of tea in one hand.  Johnyleg’s sees her in his mirror and his air guitar pose miraculously transforms into fixing the lightbulb in his Monsters of Rock lampshade.

Johnymom snorts “you’rearightmuppet”

 

Sparky sits under the breakfast table, looking up for the odd bits of cornflakes, toast and bacon finding its way down to him. His head on the kitchen linoleum, nose touching Johnyleg’s toes, a subtle reminder that there’s some  urgent under-table feeding to be done.

“youdon’tgetitmom,” Johnyleg’s is whingeing through his munching “notlikegoingtothesupermarket” he munches, “can’tjustpickcrumpetoffthefrozencounter”

You can mate Sparky muses there’s loada hindlegs crumpet at Tesco’s Extra

“getyerselfdowntotheFayrethisafternoonandfindanicegirl,”

Thickly buttered crust of toast is passed down.

“anicegirlthat’llticksallthetightboxes””

A big legged woman

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

“that’sallyouroldmom’sasking…justanicegirl”

“I’llgodownwithSparkybutIwon’tmeetanyone”

Yes you will Sparky’s determined to support his packmate, sniffing the anxiety coursing through Johnyleg’s blood.  For a moment it overshadows the sniff of illness that colours Johnylegs, and will do so in the futurenow for the rest of his life.  Fourlegs are good at sniffing hindlegs, their spirit good, bad or pitiful, and their emotions and, most colourful of all, their health.  Johnyleg’s  suffers irritable bowl syndrome.

“Yesyouwill,luv” Johnymom encourages, her seat creaking as she leans towards him “yesyouwill”

A model built for comfort, really built with style

Sparky waits for more offerings from above but the hindlegs appear to be forgetting the important need of passing down food in regular order.

“anicegirltotickalltheboxes,yerdaftmuppet” and Johnymom laughs out load, her thin paw dropping down below the tablecloth with toast thickly spread.

To squeeze my lemon till the juice runs down my leg…..yuck, Marmite’s on this!

He eats it anyway.

 

Johnyleg’s toys are carefully placed around Sparky’s sleeping mat.  The teeth-bitten ball that Johnyleg’s loves throwing that Sparky must forever go fetch, the slob-covered leather bone Johnyleg’s loves to try and pull from Sparky’s mouth, and – Johnyleg’s favourite – the well-chewed sqwarky chicken leg he loves chewing.  Sparky forces himself to rise to the occasion, pretending it’s him who really loves chewing it.

Johnylegs stands at the front door of the houseden, wearing his best black tee-shirt, Page on double-necked Gibson reversed-out in white, Sparky’s lead in one paw.

“Comeonmate”

Sparky is instantly at the door, tingling.

“enjoytheFayre” Johnymom calls, Sparky sniffing all the expectation bursting out of her in bright crimson.

(Sparky’s story continues next week…)

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