Dear Diary
September 5, 2003Treachery.
A foul concoction of trust and betrayal. A bitter taste served only by those closest to you. I tell you, Diary, that I have drunk its foulness all too deeply.
It was a peaceful day. Blue sky and billowing clouds kept me enraptured all morning. The doorbell rang. I cried for joy. I raced to the door and gave notice to the stranger on the other side that I was fully aware of his presence (a definite he-scent!).
Master came and opened the door. His superb technique of using doorknobs always amazes and confounds me. I would pay any price to have thumbs! The stranger was like a mailman but not a mailman. It was odd. The pseudo-mailman handed over a package wrapped in brown paper, tied neatly with twine. A single sniff brought aromas of hand creams, salt air and lemons. It could only be from Master's mother.
Then, as I was about to ask this mailman several pointed and staccatoed questions, disaster struck. A flaring pain erupted in my tail. I had no time to think. I ran screaming and yelping. It was as though Beelzebub himself had scalded my tail in a lake of molten sin. I ran heedless of consequence.
The pain subsided. As I returned to my senses, I noticed the delicate feel of grass beneath my paws, the smell of fall's approach with a hint of red leaves on the wind. I was outdoors. Calamity. Catastrophe.
As a young pup, there was only one broken rule that would bring out the anger in my loving Master: Do NOT leave the house. And there I stood, outside, unattended. And there he strode, towards me, infuriated.
An instinct of flight struck me but it would only make things worse. I ducked my head down in shame. Master grabbed me roughly by the collar and dragged me indoors. To be inveighed against by Master was a disheartening and ego-shattering experience. Fingers were pointed, voices were raised. It was devastating and humiliating.
Master stormed away and the package, which had brought such delight, was left in the hallway, forgotten, discarded. There at the end of the hall was Cat, a smirk upon his face and several of my tail hairs in his mouth. He spit them out with such a smug disdain that my blood turned cold.
Revenge, dear diary. The black flag is hoist. I am shaped in fury and moved by a feral hand.
Cat, beware.
Rover
| Posted by vinny9 on September 5, 2003 with category tags of Weblog |
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Written by vinny9
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