|
BORIS’S TALE
Boris,
an overweight and out of condition gray mouse, fled down the hallway,
nervously shooting rapid glances behind him as he went: first this way,
then that, then back again. With his ears held sharply back and his tail
swishing the floor, he scurried over the patterned tiles feeling terror,
guilt and anxiety all at the same time. He blamed himself bitterly.
Squeaker, his youngest son, had gone missing and it was all his own fault.
|
|
As
Boris raced along he rued the evening he had told Squeaker of those wild
adventures of the Great Grandpa Rigby, those adventures in which Rigby had
always won the upper hand over the humans. If he hadn’t have told the
tales so well Squeaker would be safe at home. But it was too late to think
about that now. He had and Squeaker had silently slipped off to seek his
own adventures in the world of humans and had not been seen for two days.
The little fool had no idea of the danger he was putting himself in! He
was so young and inexperienced he would surely get eaten!
Confound
Grandpa Rigby and his adventurous lifestyle! For all his storytelling that
sort of lifestyle had never appealed to Boris at all. It had been years
since he had dared to move about inside the house during the day. He was
quite happy, thank you, keeping to the safety of the wainscoting. Whoever
was it who said that fiction didn’t influence young minds. Woodshavings!
Whoever said it should be fed to a cat.
|