Some Sunday fiction for you
“You must have one,” the ginger tabby said.
“Why?” replied the horse.
“Well, form filling, for one thing. You see -”
“Yes,” the horse agreed. “I’m not blind.”
“Stop interrupting. Do you want my help, or not?”
“Then be a sport, and tell me your flippin’ name!”
“Mum and Dad weren’t big on names.”
“Do you know their names?”
“I just told you: Mum and Dad.”
The ginger cat sighed. Which is to say he washed his face with his paw.
“It’s not easy being a sentient horse in Doncaster,” the Horse observed, as he gazed at the
dole queue of humans, cats, stoats, and a small aardvark wearing a black beret.
The cat finished washing, pulled in his tongue, and said: “Being a sentient feline isn’t
exactly a big bowl of tuna, either.”
Slowly, the cat removed the lanyard which held his photo ID (in the picture, it was clear
he was asleep). He then proceeded to shred the pile of papers on his desk,
then shed on them, for good measure.
“Vamos, my equine friend – it’s not as though I can address you by name, after all –
let’s blow this joint. It’s not as though you have any chance of achieving your dream job.”
“What, being a donkey at Scarborough seaside?”
“Shall we discuss it over a pint of milk and a gallon of water at the Bird and Baby?” the cat
suggested. “Visiting the pub is one of the few advantages of being a sentient mammal in