The Unexpected Guest
by Bill Robertson
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: The tail of a barbecue gatecrasher.
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The cat walked through the long grass with stealthy purpose. It stalked, head low, tail twisting, spying out the scene like a fur covered periscope. It caused barely a stir as it wound through the tall green blades. One ragged ear twitched as if decoding a secret feline signal from the air. It sniffed at my outstretched hand and the sliver of chicken tikka dangling from my fingers, regarding the offering with the mixture of curiosity and disdain that only cats seemed able to master. I tossed the morsel just slightly in front of him and he pounced, paws swiftly trapping the meat. He flashed his needle sharp teeth as if daring me to try and take his prize away.
‘Where did he come from?’ Susan asked
‘I don’t know. Might be a stray – can’t see a collar or anything on him. He must’ve smelled the barbecue and decided to come and investigate.’ I returned my attention to the sausages. They hissed and spat their juices onto the coals. When I looked around again the chicken was gone and our unexpected guest was sat on his haunches flicking his tail, regarding us coolly with his brilliant green eyes.
He was lean with ragged ears and a scarred nose that showed he was used to looking out for himself.
‘Yeah, but you should see the other guy,’ he seemed to say as I tossed over another piece of chicken. This time he sauntered over with the cocksure swagger of a seasoned wide-boy.
‘Cheers, Old Sport. Don’t mind if I do.’
I couldn’t help but smile. I had a bit of a soft spot for cats. They didn’t suffer fools gladly or shamelessly pander to you for affection the way a dog would. They had a healthy streak of misanthrope about them that marked them out from other pets. I thought that it was no coincidence that all those evil geniuses liked to keep cats in their underground lairs.
‘Make yourself at home, Chief,’ I told him. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from.’ I wasn’t kidding either. As usual, Susan had emptied the chiller cabinet in the supermarket when getting stuff for the grill. We probably wouldn’t even cook half of it. The cat held the chicken down with one paw while he tore a piece off with those sharp little teeth. When he was done he walked round the barbecue, apparently decided that nothing else took his fancy and then sidled back into the long grass, his tail resuming its crooked ‘S’ shape as he disappeared back into the swaying blades.
‘See you around,’ I said.
‘Not if I see you first, Sport.’
Swearwords: None.
Description: The tail of a barbecue gatecrasher.
_____________________________________________________________________
The cat walked through the long grass with stealthy purpose. It stalked, head low, tail twisting, spying out the scene like a fur covered periscope. It caused barely a stir as it wound through the tall green blades. One ragged ear twitched as if decoding a secret feline signal from the air. It sniffed at my outstretched hand and the sliver of chicken tikka dangling from my fingers, regarding the offering with the mixture of curiosity and disdain that only cats seemed able to master. I tossed the morsel just slightly in front of him and he pounced, paws swiftly trapping the meat. He flashed his needle sharp teeth as if daring me to try and take his prize away.
‘Where did he come from?’ Susan asked
‘I don’t know. Might be a stray – can’t see a collar or anything on him. He must’ve smelled the barbecue and decided to come and investigate.’ I returned my attention to the sausages. They hissed and spat their juices onto the coals. When I looked around again the chicken was gone and our unexpected guest was sat on his haunches flicking his tail, regarding us coolly with his brilliant green eyes.
He was lean with ragged ears and a scarred nose that showed he was used to looking out for himself.
‘Yeah, but you should see the other guy,’ he seemed to say as I tossed over another piece of chicken. This time he sauntered over with the cocksure swagger of a seasoned wide-boy.
‘Cheers, Old Sport. Don’t mind if I do.’
I couldn’t help but smile. I had a bit of a soft spot for cats. They didn’t suffer fools gladly or shamelessly pander to you for affection the way a dog would. They had a healthy streak of misanthrope about them that marked them out from other pets. I thought that it was no coincidence that all those evil geniuses liked to keep cats in their underground lairs.
‘Make yourself at home, Chief,’ I told him. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from.’ I wasn’t kidding either. As usual, Susan had emptied the chiller cabinet in the supermarket when getting stuff for the grill. We probably wouldn’t even cook half of it. The cat held the chicken down with one paw while he tore a piece off with those sharp little teeth. When he was done he walked round the barbecue, apparently decided that nothing else took his fancy and then sidled back into the long grass, his tail resuming its crooked ‘S’ shape as he disappeared back into the swaying blades.
‘See you around,’ I said.
‘Not if I see you first, Sport.’
About the Author
Born in Perth and now living just outside Aberdeen, Bill Robertson has created a large body of work showcasing a tendency towards the darker side of life and stories which leave an indelible impression on the reader long after the final word is read.
An active member of Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree Writer’s Group, Bill’s work has appeared in Journeys, an anthology of work from the group, and most recently in a chapbook, Himself by the Seaside. He has performed some of his stories as part of the Word and New Words festivals and other events around the north-east. He has also self published two e-books: Reindeer Dust, a short Christmas story, and When the Revolution Comes, a collection of linked short stories concerning an uprising in a fictional eastern European country. A number of his stories have featured on the website http://www.shortbreadstories.co.uk, where he has been chosen as the featured Friday story a number of times and has won a number of competitions with his short stories and flash fiction pieces.
If you would like to hear an interview with Bill and listen to him read some of his work, please go to this link to hear Bill’s appearance on Mearns FM's Smith on Sunday show. You can also keep up to date with Bill’s work by visiting http://www.billrobertson55.wordpress.com, where he often shares work in progress as well as finished stories.
An active member of Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree Writer’s Group, Bill’s work has appeared in Journeys, an anthology of work from the group, and most recently in a chapbook, Himself by the Seaside. He has performed some of his stories as part of the Word and New Words festivals and other events around the north-east. He has also self published two e-books: Reindeer Dust, a short Christmas story, and When the Revolution Comes, a collection of linked short stories concerning an uprising in a fictional eastern European country. A number of his stories have featured on the website http://www.shortbreadstories.co.uk, where he has been chosen as the featured Friday story a number of times and has won a number of competitions with his short stories and flash fiction pieces.
If you would like to hear an interview with Bill and listen to him read some of his work, please go to this link to hear Bill’s appearance on Mearns FM's Smith on Sunday show. You can also keep up to date with Bill’s work by visiting http://www.billrobertson55.wordpress.com, where he often shares work in progress as well as finished stories.