Now that I think of it, the guys that broke into my place had no problems ransacking the joint, in spite of the dog. No sweat, Buggers would be hard pressed selling what they got for more than 5 Kilos of spuds, my life, for lack of a better word, is devoid of any material pleasures or luxuries. Seems to me Rufus may have a grudge and the focus of his hate could very well be me!
Geezus! 7:50, this will be the third time this week I was late. Crowbar in hand, a hefty heave, and up pops the sash window, heaved myself onto the ledge, spun round and was about to touch the bedroom floor when the sensation of leg being clamped between the jaws of a vice started troubling my fear of blood. Rufus, teeth clenched in a Colgate grin, had my leg firmly and painfully jammed between his fangs. "RUFUS, LET GO;" I screamed, "IT'S ME, YOUR MASTER". Too late! At the mention of the word Master, summoning some inner strength, the mutt added extra pressure to his grip.
No time to loose, I hit the dog over the head with three rolled up Playgirl magazines, that my last girlfriend forgot when she dumped me two years ago, leapt over the coffee table, again catching my toe, dropping unceremoniously into the chicken dinner, luckily breaking my fall with my face. The keys were mine but the escape route was blocked by suicidal, maniacal, Chihuahua Pit bull cross, and he didn't look happy.
The stage was set for a showdown. Holding Rufus at bay with my Pink Cadillac plastic moneybox, maneuvered for a long jump over the infamous coffee table, which seemed to relish another chance to make a fool of me. We both took deep breaths, With a Kung Fu scream, browed from Bruce Lee Fong, my grocer, hurled the moneybox at Rufus as he leapt for the throat and I for the window, made it with ease except that the sash had slid back down after my entry.
Picking glass out of my hair, vaulted over the fence, stuck the key into the lock, wrenched the door open, turned the ignition on and heaved the car downhill for a push start. With an unhealthy splutter from the exhaust, the car barreled drunkenly towards the safety barrier at the end of the hill with me pumping for dear life to get enough brake pressure to stop.
"Pure breed African Kangaroo Rabbit Terrier, my foot"; I'll strangle Honest Murphy if he doesn't cough up my pack of playing cards.
E-mail to Ray Agius: Ramel@bigpond.com
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