In the event of mice falling from the sky, we were told to buy cats. If the reverse happened, then we were to buy dogs. There was, however, no plan to cater for a storm of poodles. They fell like balls of cotton wool with teeth, yapping and snapping, licking and lapping. The populace fled. The police grew overwhelmed. Society crumbled. In ever-deepening streams of white and pink and blue, those most decorative of dogs took over. What did I do, you ask? What else was there to do? I opened a grooming parlour.
For sale: lazy goldfish. Won't swim.
When our dog flew out of the window on gossamer wings, I dropped my spoon in my breakfast. He didn't even bark a goodbye. I shot outside and stared as he showed off by doing several somersaults amongst the rain clouds. Mongrels! You never knew what they were crossed with.