The musings of Robert Robus

Monday, September 17, 2007

In which MacFarlane, catcher of dogs, is introduced by Robert Robus

Hello, dear readers; it is I, Robert Robus--and I have tidings. This pahst Friday, as I was out quaffing brews (of root beer, of course) at a local establishment of the type commonly referred to in our autochthonous vernacular as a "pub," I happen to have christened the acquaintance of one "MacFarlane," a quotidian Mr.-Rogers-hairstyled gentleman who, when he's not wearing a cardigan and lacing his shoes, is entrusted with the lofty tahsk of--when he sees mongrels and/or mutts roaming more freely through the streets than they ought--capturing said mongrels and/or mutts in his net and carting them off to the pound.

The only problem is, folks, that MacFarlane has a secret fondness for mongrels, mutts, and other curs, and rather enjoys watching them, um--to put it in diplomatical fashion--exercise free rein quite plethorially.

Now, let us meet this hero: for I have determined to sally forth this ahfternoon, and this on a course that is amply conterminous with that of said dogcatcher. Ahnd now I am jaunting in the lane in which it is often the dyooty of MacFarlane to snag and/or allay any mutts, mongrels, or curs which might come along to disturb the calm of said lane. Ahnd now I see a little white truck appear in the distance, stirring up a cloud of dust as it charts its course on the road toward I, Robert Robus, ahnd. . .Ah, yes, it's drawing nearer, ahnd MacFarlane, recognising yours truly, has applied the brakes and brought said vehicle to a standstill not thirty meters from I. Why hello there, good sir MacFarlane, and how do you do?

That is wonderful, my good man. I, too, am doing quite fine. . .What? What's that you say?. . .Oh, no, old chum, sore drinking arm notwithstanding: I cahn't complain, my good man--I most assuredly cannot complain! And you, good friend MacFarlane: how art thou doing, my good chum?

--What? What's that you say? A doberman pinscher scratched several layers of skin from your wrist when you tried to stop him from eating the wheels off a man's phaeton in town not an hour ago? My word, dear MacFarlane! So what did you do in moments subsequent?. . .You say you quickly fled the scene? Why, of course, my dear sir; who would not do precisely as you have done in similar circumstances, my old sport?

--What? You say dogcatchers are commonly held to be responsible of comporting themselves in rother a different manner in such circumstahnces, considering their role in society? Why, that is nonsense, my good man; who (in the name of Jove) told you that?. . .Oh, I see. . .the police officer who was forced to intervene when the pinscher--after consuming the wheels of the phaeton, of course--made a show of endeavouring to consume the man as well? Hum! And you say the officer employed his truncheon quite plethorially on said doberman? Why, what a pitiful example of brutality! I say he be amply indicted for this inhumane act. To what despicable acts of violence our canine companions are made subject by such vile men as he! Indeed, it is clear from this incident alone that dogs are far superior to humans.

At any rate, MacFarlane, I am glad to have made your acquaintance, and I look forward to watching you let many more of our canine friends mete out their peculiar brand of justice to many more of their human couterparts in months subsequent. Welcome aboard!