Torvald has taken to calling every evening at the dinner hour. A sound of angry birds — pace fans of the iPhone game — announces his arrival, if I’m not alerted by Fergie raising his antennas like My Favorite Martian used to do in the TV serial.
I had a bit of spoilt vegetable matter ready to go out to the composter but elected to leave it and venture out by another door with a scoop of kibble and a mug of water.
The birds were mightily out of countenance, and so, for some reason, was Torvald, when he wasn’t licking his chops and mewing for attention, that is.
I am not at all sure where this is going.