The House Guest

Hetti tells a fun story very well.

The Triumphant Weed


He lived with me. No contract had been signed. I didn’t ask for a lodger. I had asked on multiple occasions for him to leave. When it became obvious he wouldn’t leave without a prompt, I packed a polythene bag full of sandwiches and threw it up the garden, where it smashed into my lame herbaceous border, then sat upon a particular bulbous perennial like a cancerous growth. Of course, once he noticed, he’d be off, clambering across the grass, slicing the bag open; his wet chops smeared with raspberry jam, his chest speckled with crumbs.

As the adventurous sort, he despised staying inside. My ideal day: a cheesy cop show on TV, a few cold beers in the fridge, a tub of chocolate chip in my lap seemed to incense him. Mostly monosyllabic, he preferred to beat his chest, jump about the place, smash his paws through anything he…

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