Bruizer Vs Donald Trump’s Cat

2018-01-24_09.54.41

I will share my favourite couch with anybody, so long as they repay me in scratches behind the ears. I especially love sitting in my spot in the middle, between my two favourite humans when they sit together in the evenings, watching the News.

Today however, I don’t really like the man taking up space and all of Masters attention at the moment. I’m curled up beside my human, resting my chin on his lap. Having just woken up from my recent micro-nap I master is holding Donald Trump. I don’t mean the real Donald Trump of course, just his picture on the cover of Masters book. Master reads a lot but this book surprises me I’ve seen this man a lot lately on TV when my humans watch the News. I don’t know much about him but a lot of people on the News say he is mean and sometimes he sure looks it, too. He must be mean, because the News says he likes cats. This must be true because he lets one sleep on his head, even when people are taking pictures of him.

I don’t really like cats. Even though I’ve only ever lived with one, Princess Puss, I have it on pretty good authority that that they are all as grouchy, demanding and spiteful as Princess Puss. I have no doubt Donald’s cat is equally mean, even when it sleeps. I really think that vile creature is always atop it’s human’s head transmitting it’s mean-ness directly into poor old Don’s head. I mean that would surely explain the mean things the man says and does on the TV and his computer. Naturally the thing is presiding over the man’s head in the picture on Master’s book, as if he was a furry crown on a king.

Master abruptly closes the book and places it beside me on the couch – MY couch. I ignore Donald, vowing to deal with him soon, instead raising my head and nudging Master’s hand. I work my pleading round button eyes, fixing them intently on my oblivious Master.

Ignoring my not so subtle attempts to win his attention, Master rises from the couch and disappears from the room, leaving me alone on the couch with Donald Trump. Now don’t get me wrong I don’t hate the man. I’m a dog. I don’t really hate anyone. It’s just not in my nature. I just don’t want to share my couch with him.

Granting the man, mercy I keep a watchful eye on him as I rest my chin on the couch cushion, facing that wretched book, ensure that neither Donald nor his sleeping cat move from that cover. That’s when my mind starts to wander.

Suddenly I’m on the front steps if a big white house with giant pillars reaching to the the sky. There are millions of people around with pens scratching note pads, handheld computers and phones, squealing microphones and flashing cameras. In the distance I can see large dishes on top of minivans and I wonder for a minute how many bags of my favourite bikkies it would take to fill them. I salivate at the thought.

With all of those people talking at once there is a hum in the crowd like a million bees feeding their Queen, only a thousand decibels louder, cutting through their microphones’ high pitched squeals. Still the frequency of those squeals is hurting my ears and I let out a long howl to relieve it.

I look up at the man standing beside me in his grey suit and red tie and I feel a sudden urge to help this man, especially when I see the speck of dirt on his otherwise shiny black leather left shoe. I try first with my tongue to clean it off, but that only leaves a bubbling pool of drool, which just won’t do. Feeling frustrated and a little ashaned, of the mess I had made, I decide to fix the problem, the best way I know how.

The crowd laughs as I cock my leg, high as I can an proceed to empty my bladder, not realising how much of it is splashing on his trousers. The show is now clean and shiny as his other and I am feeling satisfied that I have managed to solve the first of this man’s many problems.

I fix my eyes on the next big problem in dire need of solving and begin barking incessantly at the sleeping cat, but I figure he must be too deeply entrenched in the Land of Nod to hear me because he does not wake. He simply snores on. Gasps from the crowd turn to loud ‘awwws’ as the cameras snap away at the man, now picking me up and scratching the itch in my favourite spot behind my ears. Soaking up this man’s affections and finding myself starting to like him, I momentarily grant the sleeping cat mercy. Maybe, I think to myself, this man is not as bad as the News says. I tell him so by returning his affections with licks to the face, even solving the minor issue of the ketchup around his mouth. I take care of the spot if it on his cheek.

Then I remember the original mission and decide to take advantage of this new much closer vantage point. I lunge at the cat, who finally awakes suddenly. Of course the wretched thing begins screeching and hissing.

Smack! He strikes my face, claws extended and then takes a flying leap from the man’s head and scurries away, leaving behind a pale balding head, and a shocked, gasping crowd. I try to lick away the wiry bits of stray hairs the cat has left blowing in the breeze.

“Thank you kind, Sir.” The man is smiling broadly as I nestle back in his arms. The crowd is now cheering wildly, since the cat’s quick exit stage right into the bushes. “I thought I would never get rid of that horrid cat.”

He holds me up beside his face and I turn my face to the cameras for my inevitable moment in the spotlight. I wag my tail and flash them all with a big, goofy, tongue hanging out, puppy grin. “Now this is what should be on the cover or your book!” I tell him with more licks to the side of his face while the cameras snap away and the crowd roars with laughter. The man is nodding in agreement.

“Bruizer!” Master’s booming bellow cuts suddenly into my reverie. I find myself cowering on the couch while Master towers over me. He snatches the book away, the pages now completely shredded, and holds it up, while the slobber and wee drip off it. A white cloud is now covering most of Donald’s face and there is no sign of the cat under the second cloud atop his head. “Outside! Now!” I slink off the couch in the direction Master is pointing, with my head bowed low. I give him my best apologetic look. “Naughty!” He shouts, shaking the book in the air as I push my way outside through the small doggie door. Sitting on the freezing cold wooden porch, I spy through the gap of the still swinging door to see Master throw the now shredded book with Donald Trump’s now cloudy face into a nearby waste paper basket.

Of course my remorse is real, but I feel an overwhelming wave of triumph. I really didn’t mean to annihilate the man by ripping his face off or shredding the books pages. I just wanted to chase the cat away and I did that, job done. Master will forgive me I’m sure and I will soon be allowed back inside out of the cold, but most important of all is, the cat no longer sleeps on Donald Trump’s head, feeding him those vile thoughts through his scalp.

 

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