Gert Groetrek en die fokken dose - Deel vyftien
The spilling palace.
Cats take their time adjusting to the new places their Slow Ones haul them off to, so unceremoniously, so inconsiderately. More often than not, cats adjust themselves right out of there. You had your chance schmuck. I’m no dog on a leash. But two days after being let out of their basket-of-enclosure, that crude trap with its ominous rumbling and its tightening atmosphere, Pork and Peach were sprawling around like royalty.
This is more like it. The Slow One had got it right this time. The inside was bigger, and,
when on the third day they were cautiously (see him hover skittishly) introduced to the outside, the outside was practically spilling in all directions. Never had so many scents and smells winked at Pork. They winked from afar and they winked from right up close. Pork could hardly believe his luck. Por-ki’d this way; ki-pie’d that. Giddy snout all but bounding off in all-pursuit.
Peach calmly licked herself. Front paws, pause; fore-limbs, neutral scan; rump and tummy, Swish. Peach felt her Slow One’s eyes. It took considerable effort to remain aloof and vague with the tumult of avian song and faint far-off scurrying and scent and swirling and swirling into her being. Peach looked up at her Slow One. Blinked casually. “And..?”, her eyes seemed to say. Pork hopped towards a bee.
That afternoon their Slow One let them out again. Peach slinked off, all of her perfection trembling beneath that furred composure (that night Peach would introduce herself to two new species). Pork hopped and twirled drunkenly about. Scratching and sniffing; biting and smelling. Pork looked back at his Slow One with a face like an exclamation-mark. The latter beamed back, chin in palm.
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