I, Effing Feline, am holding my nose. That’s because I’m about to write about an unpleasant subject, one that I’ve avoided for months and months. Namely, the other animal in this house — Twiggles the Dog.
I’ll try not to make fun of her, because poor Twiggles not only has no tail (!) she’s getting old (!!). Notice all the grey hair? That proves she old, old, old — unlike young, vigorous me. Nyah nyah nyah, Twiggles has no tail!
Oops. I said I wouldn’t do that. My bad.
Back to The Saint of Quarantine Island. After young Billy jumps off the cliff, the boat’s driver decides Janet has to haul Billy into the dinghy and row him to his floathouse.
Realizing she’d stopped pulling the rope, she resumed hauling the boy in. He was almost to the dinghy, thanks as much to his swimming as to her efforts.
“It’ll be okay, Billy,” the driver called. “I brought a mom to take care of you.”
“What!” Janet dropped the rope then scrambled to pick it up again. “What did you say?”
The driver grinned at her. “Bye, lady.”
Fingers appeared over the side of the dinghy, followed by a hand and a wet, half-drowned head covered in matted hair so long it almost looked like a beast’s.
And a few more:
Janet took his hand and pulled, but he didn’t need much help. He hauled himself into the dinghy with an efficiency that spoke of practice. He shook himself like a dog, splattering her with frigid seawater, then lay on his side, coughing. Billy Seaweed smelled briny, like his name.
Effing Feline here again. You know, folks, I really hate that Ed has opposable thumbs for opening cans. It means I have to do what he wants (sometimes).
Right now he wants me to point out that Twiggles is a schnauzer/poodle mix, or schnoodle (what a ridiculous name!). She gets the grey from her schnauzer ancestors, not because she’s old. He also says Twiggles is younger than I am, but I’m not going to tell you that.
Uh . . . oops again!