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Ben the Mechanical Dog
Simon bought a mechanical dog. A big, bushy-tailed thing called Ben.
“Training, Ben,” said Simon, in the park, the stick held aloft of his head. “I throw, you fetch. Good boy, good boy.”
The stick whistled through the air. Simon made encouraging gestures of pursuit. Ben looked on blankly. “Ah,” said Simon. “You’re not good at that one, eh? Then we’ll try some basic commands:
“Sit!” Ben stood.
“Lie down!” Ben offered his paw.
“Roll over!” Ben sat.
Simon took the dog back to the shop.
“This mechanical dog’s faulty,” he said. “It doesn’t understand a word I say.”
“Not at all, sir,” said the shopkeeper. “A small adjustment, that’s all that’s needed.” He lifted a flap at the back of Simon’s head and delved inside with a screwdriver. “Try that now.”
Now Simon and Ben are on the same wavelength. And they share recharging pods, too.
Bob’s Descent
It was very, very dark when Bob woke up. “Can’t see my hand in front of my face,” he murmured, his voice strangely dulled as if enclosed. Not that he could lift his hand to his face. His hands were held far too tightly across his chest to move. “Still, must get up – can’t go sleeping forever.”
Distant, the single toll of the church bell, its chime softened as if it came from a world away. It was in such contrast to the harsh rattle of earth thrown down upon wood mere inches from Bob’s face. Downward lurched Bob, swaying as if lowered by ropes, and far away Miriam wept and the Reverend Hobbs sang much-practised words.
“Ah,” said Bob, “I smell flowers.”
He chose not to say aloud he smelled damp earth, too.
Mrs Henderson’s Threadbare Cat
“Her cat’s looking a bit threadbare,” said Mrs Tate from number three.
“Aye, it can’t be being looked after properly,” said Mrs Parry from twenty-six.
“Cats that old need a good diet.”
“They need lots of fibre, just like we do.”
“And I’ve not seen Mrs Henderson in the pet shop for weeks.”
“She can’t be buying it the proper food, then.”
Mrs Tate rubbed her chin. “You’d think she’d do something about all the milk bottles on her step, too.”
“And the wads of mail poking out of her letterbox.”
Mrs Tate reached down for the shopping bag at her feet. “Still, as long as she’s feeding her cat something, no doubt it’ll be all right.”
“Aye, bye then, Doris, look after yourself.”
“And you, Edna, because if you don’t who else will, eh?”
Mrs Dawson’s Scrunched Up Underwear
Mrs Tate went to a séance.
“I want to speak to my Norman,” she said to the gypsy-clad woman at the shadowy end of the long table. “Can you get him for me from beyond the divide?”
Entry to the spirit world was two-pounds-fifty. Mrs Tate supposed there were Indian guides to pay, and the shades of ancient Peruvian mountain herders didn’t come cheap. Still, it would surely be worth it to get hold of old Norman one last time.
“Norman, is that you?” said Mrs Tate, when the lights dimmed and knocks there came thrice.
“Edna?”
“Norman, I have to ask you something.”
“Is it about spirituality and eternal paradise?”
“Not really, Norman.”
“Then it’s about death and the parting of the veil?”
“I’ll ask that next time, Norman.”
“Then what is it, Edna?”
“I want to know what you think of Hell.”
“But I’m not in Hell, dearest.”
“You will be soon, when I get up there.”
“Oh?”
“I found Mrs Dawson’s scrunched up underwear in your jacket pocket.”
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