Klepter's
Backyard Imbroglio
(owing a debt
to the word play of Lewis Carroll)
by Mark Scheel
"Tell me a
story, Uncle John," beseeched little Mary
Ann, plopping herself down on the hassock beside
Uncle John's recliner.
"Alright,
Sweet Pea. What would you like to hear?"
Uncle John replied, putting aside the newspaper.
"Well...something
about dogs, I think. With funny words, like
Jabberwocky."
"That
shouldn't be too hard," Uncle John laughed.
"I bet I know what will make a good one."
And he began.
* *
*
Klepter
was a greylic Coton de Tulear with a rapful bark
and a wiggering tail. He'd been elected the
governor of the Piffledale backyard by all the
flurfles and fleavers many moons ago and had
served magninfully in that capacity ever since.
As he'd prancify up and down the picket fence
with his combed fur coat glenteening brightly, he
seemed the very picture of bofond
governoresqueship. And all the flurfles and
fleavers could rest content that all was well in
flurdom.
One
particularly dry and derained summer, however, a
new family moved in next door to the Piffledales
with a little white poodle named Distractique.
Right away she began to flauntify her pink
ribbons and white curls along that same picket
fence where Klepter would often prancify. And sad
to say, it wasn't long before she had vigerated
Klepter completely in her thrall. So
decombommeled did he become that he failed to
adiffully patrol the birdbath and the foreign
bluegins splashed away what little water there
was. Then the nastiful raggitts sneaked in the
back mesh and helped themselves to the lettuce.
The last straw came when the neighboring
querpills began stealing nuts from the flurdom
store.
All
the flurfles and fleavers assembled themselves
and called for a confabtation. The wise old owl
who lived in the oople shed declared that: "It
is written in the forest tutionistal that those
who 'elect' may also 'delect.'" "Let’s
delect!" shouted the assemblanance. "But
we must also relect," clarifacted the owl,
"and who will be a candidate?"
"I
will," stipified the toontate. "No
raggitts or querpills will get past me!"
"I
will," steerified the blungoot. "I'll
go over and bring our nuts back!"
"I
will," edeified the gongoster. "I can
do a rain dance!"
And
before you could whinkle an eyelash, over a
hundred candidates had covoteered!
Now
it wasn’t long before news of the
confabtation harkenated Klepter's ear. And he
sought out a confictition of events from the wise
old owl. When he’d been apprised of the
details of the transmantation, Klepter
clarnicated: "Now listen, one and all. I
never vigerated with that poodle. That Miss
Distractique." But it was to no avail as the
flurfles and fleavers vorsanked to eminue the
delect.
And
so for the remainder of the summer the backyard
was subjected to the most quantifferal of
political campaigns. Gongosters dancing.
Blungoots nutting. What an effenteral sight!
Then,
on the eve of the delect and relect, two
conjugatal events engineered by Klepter would
alter the course of everything. First, under
cover of darkness, Klepter slipped between two
loose pickets into the yard next door and, with
the conivifying of a beagle in the next block who
owed him a favor, chewed up everything in sight--the
garden hose, the rake handle, even the
lonkendrecker, everything--leaving behind one
pink ribbon. The next day the insoucific
Distractique was promptly shipped off to
obedience school and became a matter passtaine.
And second, bribing a cousin of the wise old owl
with doggie burgers, Klepter arranged for him to
whifflewing in bearing news of a legal
technicality in the tutionistal that forbade
delections during a drought! And, as a great dane
once quoped to a bob-tailed cocker, that was the
end of that.
Well,
to say the least, Klepter felt himself to be
"a pup saved by the swingindill." And
then, to top things off, a hard rain fell that
night, which seemed to, as it were, wash away all
the flurfles' and fleavers' hybendations. And all
was peace once more in flurdom.
Prancifying
the next morning along the picket fence, Klepter
couldn't help pontifying to himself: "I hope
they’ve learned their lesson. Politics is a
thing best left to the dogs." And so it is.
Winner
of The
Humor and Life, in Particular Web site August/September 2005
Short Humor Contest.
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