Friday, August 20, 2010

232. Out of sorts

He crouched at the door to the nursery wondering where the freight-train had come from. One moment he was cock-of-the-heap, the next a feather-duster. Before, they chilled out on the couch, but now it was all coming-and-going, all hustle and bustle. He did not like it. Not one little bit. Nosiree!

He wanted life back as before, with him the master and they his slaves. Being the apple of their eye was a state to which he had gotten used. But he felt shafted, the pecking order had moved on, the mistral was blowing from the south. And there she is again sitting in the big chair, but her lap is already fully occupied.

He wasn’t taken with her reaction to yesterday’s fracas, either. It had only been a small pot of lavender. And she was the one who had left it on the edge of the dining room table.


jabblog said...

New arrivals must be introduced so carefully. Poor boy!

Joan Elizabeth said...

Poor feather duster ... I like that description.