Lawn Walkin'!

Old Two-legs-pouch-face had been staring down the garden for some time with considerable curiosity, so I sat myself before the flatcap to see what could possibly be more important than attending to my gastronomic demands. Beyond the patio steps, the short stretch of lawn and the (pathetic human-built excuse for a) rocky outcrop, there is a small thicket of bamboo. Behind the latter I could see a static greyish mound. Was it a new rock? My eyes blackened. No, to me it looked more rear endish? Indeed, yes, I decided, t'was a rump for sure. A cat rump at that! "Aye there's the rump!" came to mind and I grinned to myself. My tail flicked in delight at my own humourous wit. "A Millhouse rump, methinks" and there he was, crouched, elbows next shoulder blades, with his queen Anne legs either side, staring intently at the grass before him. Well, "grass is grass, just as a fridge door is a fridge door," I thought. Can it be that Millhouse is deep in thought? Or observing the differences between Creeping Fescue and Rye? Unlikely! He's not one for intelligent botanical analyses. But he was so intent. Not an ear twitched, nor a whisker tweaked. I began to think he may have trapped a mouse or bird amongst the mass of bamboo stalks; was waiting to pounce when it emerged. But nothing was evident. No little brown thing wriggling amongst the stalks.
After a while, Millhouse began doing a little dance. Yes, he was nodding his head as if to a catchy Michael Jackson number! But I knew he hadn't taken his Ipod out with him; it was still on the kitchen worktop. Had he heard the news? Was this his kittenish response? Anyway, Millhouse can't moonwalk. He can't even walk normally. He slinks. But, getting more into his stride, he managed a 180 turn in one neat swirl followed by some more serious rhythmic head banging and fancy footwork. "Hey, Man! Get it on!" I muttered with spontaneous enthusiasm. "I do believe Rocky Robin's out there! Yeah!"
Eventually in a tremendous finale, Millhouse cantered a schizophrenic zig-zag round the lawn and raced up the cherry tree. Now that's what I call choreography!
"So you heard about Michael Jackson then?" I said when I finally met up with him for early afternoon tea. (As opposed to late afternoon tea which comes not long before early evening supper followed by bedtime supper and the 'go on give us some more' final chance moment.)
"Michael who?" He looked puzzled.
"You know, Jackson." I said. "All that dancing this afternoon. Getting it on man!"
"Goodness, I don't know what you're on about." He replied, "but it's the first time I've met a mole. Wild, man! Wild!"

Herky