Pudding and Potato’s Christmas; Part Two of Four
If you missed Part One of this story you can read it here and be sure to like Lee’s Facebook Page to get more updates and adventures… (he’s trying to hit 1,000 likes before the end of the year! What a great Christmas present it would be!)
“Written by Pudding the Cat: December 11th, 2013.”
The giant wooden wind defender has just slammed shut; meaning mummy servant has left
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Pudding and Potato
the kingdom, to collect my weekly order of noms and comfort devices. It is a crisp winters morning, where all is peaceful in the palace. With only myself and Potato inside (Elvis the Goldfish doesn’t count, on account of being an idiot… and a Goldfish), the time is nigh to defeat the green prickle monster of doom; and claim what is rightfully mine – my extra special shiny gift!
You see, with my lovely new present currently resting underneath the guard and the glare of prickle monster and his loyal decoration soldiers; who know me only too well, I am unable to move anywhere close above ground level. Potato – in comparison, is still a curious unknown to these ruthless villains. For some inexplicable reason, the prickle has taken a shine to our silly woofington, and our silly woofington in return, has taken a shine to the prickle. Each of the past ten dark time periods; where mummy and daddy recharge through meditations – in order to prepare themselves for future Pudding worshipping duties, the oddball has taken to resting beneath the enemies dangly, ball-shaped arms; unaffected by his electric lights generator, and even penetrating the stoic solders – one even wrapped itself around the smelly fella yesterday, in comfort, not attack. Even more surprising, greenie allows Potato to rest right beside MY special ceiling cat present – it’s just not right.
Needing Potato for my amazing plan, I initially attempted to convince him of the monster’s evil nature; but woofingtons are incapable of negative emotions toward anything that lives; and in the case of the fifty-feet tall shiny post outside – which he is so fond of standing on his legs and dancing with, some which do not. I then considered attaching sausages to those evil dangly arms – making Potato unintentionally destroy through hunger; but unfortunately, I have yet to learn how to grow myself new thumbs to lift up said sausages. In the end, the only means in which I am able to get Potato to complete my fiendish plan, has been to convince him he is doing it all for love; cue my Catavellian laugh…
The plan itself is naturally the brilliant work of a feline mastermind. First of all I gently glide into the living room – wearing an incognito Penguin costume Auntie Mabel used to force on me, carefully slide under the bottom of the monster, and crouch down beneath his solitary wooden leg; weakened from years of standing. When in position, and when I say so, Potato – who I have convinced is giving greenie a ginormous loving hug – as he gets sad sometimes working an often thankless job, flies from the top of the mantelpiece by the unlit fire, deep into his prickled arms. As he does – and if my mathematical equations are accurate, both should go flying to the ground underneath the weight of my back, protected by the comfy fabric of my penguin disguise.
The resulting act should leave prickle man down, destitute, and ultimately, defeated. It will also leave me able to rightfully claim my prize, as he lay in the battlefield of carpet. Of course, there is a small chance Potato may suffer injury from his misunderstood heroic deed; as well as sadness in harming his friend. But having a conscience as I do – not that I ever let anyone know this, I have stored away a small box of bone-shaped meaty biscuits as a small means of solace, and a silent thank you. Just don’t let any of my moggy friends know; they will blacklist me from all future world domination events, if they became aware of my adverse leanings toward mercenary tactics, and fraternising with the lower-orders.
I write this from the comfort of my upstairs bedroom; where Potato stands by the door, panting and smiling at nothing. We better get moving, for time is at a minimum. I will call him out with a firm meow, and together we shall slowly make our way downstairs to the arena of my living room. Potato; you smelly, silly, yet good-natured woofington – I want my shiny gift, and I demand victory! Let’s roll…
Stay tuned for Part 3….
About the Author:
LEE GUNNELL IS A WRITER/AUTHOR FROM LONDON WHO ENJOYS WRITING ABOUT A PHILOSOPHICAL MIXTURE OF ANIMALS, POP CULTURE, AND POSITIVE THINKING. BE SURE TO LIKE LEE’S FACEBOOK PAGE.