Waffles

Waffles here. I am a mighty hunter. I am feted and cheered by the humans of this house, as is my due. I have dined on salmon, turkey fillets and smoked ham. I have supped cream. I am content to be the object of adoration in these here parts. I went out into the garden this morning. Our fine lawn looks like a relief map of the moon, cratered and bumpy. Why has our wondrous green sward become like this? Simple, a mole has taken residence once more. In the garden I saw it move - a molehill on the rise. So I pounced! My fangs glinted in the late autumn sun and my claws struck! I got the mole. I brought it home for the fat one to see. She danced and squealed with joy around the kitchen, as I entered with the mole in my fangs. "Oh Waffles!" she cried, "What a mighty hunter you are! So brave, so wonderful! Do have some ham!" The mole was duly sacrificed at the Altar of Bast in the kitchen (human note: the kitchen bin) and I was fussed over mightily, as is my due. The fat one has instructed Paw to get out in the garden and flatten down the molehills, so we have a nice garden once more. Purrs, Waffles

Human note: The garden is wrecked by the mole - there are molehills are all over the place and the ground has been so riddled with tunnels the surface is all uneven and walking is not easy - having a weak ankle, I can't afford to break it again. Waffles has saved the day, until the next mole comes along, that is.

Copyright © Helen Simmons
December 1, 2001