Lord Millhouse has been fascinated of late by a pheasant who makes daily expeditions into the garden. He is very smartly dressed with his traditional dark green, and red head, white barred neck, and golden speckled body set off by a magnificently long tail. The large bird is quite unmoved by the furry observer and sits in the sun on the compost heap. Millhouse looks on from a distance full of admiration and respect.
"Nice meal!" he says to himself as he hums," I'm not a pheasant plucker; I'm a pheasant plucker's son...."
It just goes to show if you dress smartly you command greater respect and may live to see another day.
Sadly, there is feathery evidence behind the shed that a less strikingly attired bird, Mr woodpidgeon has met his muncher; he's surely been plucked! We suspect Mr Fox was responsible for that particular drama.
Apart from his mid-morning nap until 2 p.m. , Millhouse is out for all hours living the wild life of a merciless predator, in his mind anyway. He's very brave and the master of his craft; until someone should sneeze behind him and send him running into the bushes with his ears flat.
It all illustrates Darwin's theory of survival. Millhouse hasn't quite earned his ticket yet!
I'm the smartest of all in the evolutionary tree in my domain: but it does take a lot of patience. Sometimes I have to sit in front of my bowl for twenty minutes before due notice is taken and food is served. I know it will come in the end otherwise it's time for plan B; pad clumsily across the keyboard between human eyes and screen....."Oh for goodness sake!"...and there it is! Squidged in the bowl.
Herky
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