#give this roly poly boy a pet

[leigheasaim-blog]

                                                     ( @timelessadventures )

         Erie, who took to the back of Amelia’s couch looking not unlike a lazy cat, sighed heavily with his cheek pressed against the couch. It wasn’t like he didn’t have anything to do — there were a whole range of things he could be doing, should be doing; productive things like his maths or helping Amelia with something. But he’d had a bad day, one full of having to do things by himself including making a doctor’s appointment by himself and making it a point to eat a small meal and doing things to generally improve his health before aforementioned doctor’s appointment to make it look like he’d been taking care of himself this whole time.

        He sighed again, heavier this time, not pleased with the fact Amelia was not giving him affection or validation. He shouldn’t have to ask for it. He rolled over onto her couch to lay on it properly, ignoring the sharp pain in his side that told him he’d just laid on something very pointy and hard until he couldn’t ignore it anymore and rolled over once more, accepting his fate as he hit the floor with a soft thump.

                “When an octopus is stressed it’ll eat itself… and honestly? Mood.”

[displacedcreativity]

There’s obviously a lot of chatter going on about Cruella and 101 Dalmatians and ooohhh my god errebody a lot of you don’t know the source material and I really. I really need to share a nut shelled version of the two novels (yes there’s TWO) because it’s absolutely wild from start to finish and it starts out innocent enough and then just escalates from there.  Copy pasting from my twitter thread cause as much as I love this roller coaster I don’t want to type it again HERE WE GO: To start in the original 101 Dalmatians novel, Mr. and Mrs. Dearly have that house because Mr. Dearly never has to pay taxes ever again and was gifted that house because he wiped out the government debt.  They also had two nannies - Nanny Cook and Nanny Butler. Pongo is still there, but the mother of his pups is a dalmatian named Missis.  Perdita is a dalmatian the family took in out of the rain as a 'wet nurse' to help feed the 15 puppies. Perdita apparently means lost. Cruella is also married to a furrier. Because of course.

  Perdita tells Pongo that she HAD puppies, by a dog named Prince, but her owner sold her puppies so she was out looking for them. After the puppies are stolen, and the Twilight bark reveals the location, Pongo and Missis TRY to tell the humans but fail cause they can't say S's.   Pongo and Missis go on the search for the puppies, and Perdita stays behind to watch the Dearly's. When they get to hell hall, there's 97 puppies and Cadpig is a runt and needs to be pulled along in a toy cart supplied by a 2 year old boy in order to escape. When the dogs get back to London, Cruella's PERSIAN CAT who wants revenge for the kittens Cruella drowned, lets them inside the house so the dogs can destroy Cruella's furs.  They return home and it turns out Perdita's puppies were the one's pulling Cadpig, Prince confirms! Since all the puppies were bought and paid for, and not stolen. No one is looking to get them back. Even Perdita's owner sells her to the Dearly's because fuck Perdita I guess smh. Cruella's cat is now HOMELESS because the destruction of the furs has forced Cruella to flee the country and put Hell Hall up for sale so the Dearly's adopt the cat as well. They then buy Hell Hall for their "Dalmatian Dynasty" with money earned by fixing another gov. debt.  They then adopt Prince because they see how much he still loves Perdita and Prince becomes dalmatian 101. TIME FOR BOOK 2. THE STARLIGHT BARKING. They're still living in Hell Hall and the Persian cats are married.  Cadpig now lives with the Prime Minister. Wholesome, right? Happy and cute what could the sequel to 101 Dalmatians possibly entail that's weirder than the first? MY FRIENDS. FAM. BUCKLE UP. The dogs awaken one morning to find out that not a single living thing aside from dogs can wake up. Doors, machines, etc all work on command and the dogs don't need to eat or drink or sleep.  Cadpig is now the acting PRIME MINISTER AND THE DOGS CAN COMMUNICATE VIA THOUGHT WAVES. They soon discover that they can 'swoosh' which is basically hovering over the ground at high speed. So, I mean, flying. They can basically fly. So Pongo and Missis SWOOSH to London with about 50 other dalmatians to meet with PRIME MINISTER CADPIG. But WAIT. Tommy, the kid from the first book, and the farm crew and the Persian cat from the first book are discovered to ALSO be awake because they were dubbed "honorary dogs" after helping the dalmatians in the first book. Because fuck the Dearly's I guess they're just PETS. The Persian cat thinks this is all Cruella's fault somehow so they pull together a team to go to Cruella's home to KILL HER. But she and her husband are both asleep like everyone else. She's now obsessed with metallic plastic and not furs. So they spare her life.  And then! A mysterious voice comes onto the t.v, alerting all dogs that they must all gather tonight by midnight under starlight. The Twilight bark and the TELEPATHY ensures all dogs get this message. Because of course. *INHALES BECAUSE NEXT PART IS A DOOZY.* All the dogs, including the honorary ones are gathered and waiting. Then! At Midnight! Euphoria! The terror! ....... As Sirius, the Lord of the Dog star appears and announces that he's lonely, and he wants to take all the dogs off Earth so they can avoid the future Nuclear War. But the dogs have to come willingly and in the morning he promises that the world will forget dogs every existed so they're not missed. Pongo is tasked with deciding the fate OF EVERY DOG ON EARTH.  Some stray dogs convince Pongo to say no to Sirius, because the decision to go would be unfair to any dog on Earth who is still hoping to find a loving family on Earth.  So Pongo says no, and Siris proud that the dogs are staying so loyal despite the promise of eternal bliss. Sirius lets all the dogs SWOOSH back home and of course they deduce he appeared everywhere in the world at once because he's a star and not bound by. Physics or something. Pongo gives one last message to Sirius saying dogs may leave one day, but for now they like being on Earth. Also in the second book. Lucky has a wife named Gay and they're secretaries to a poodle.  Patch refuses to marry because he doesn't want to pass down his eye spot.  Roly Poly teaches George, a boxer, how to swim and they bond over magical adventures in Paris. I PROMISE YOU nothing Disney makes with 101 Dalmatians can top the source material and honestly they’re cowards for not doing a perfect adaptation or the second book. (Apparently Disney wanted to do more things based on that author’s work when he was alive  and I’m sure he would have had he not died in 1966 since Starlight Barking came out in 1967. Just think, there’s probably a timeline where Starlight Barking is the first Disney animated sequel instead of Rescuers Down Under.)

[scotianostra]

On March 8th 1936 The "Oor Wullie" cartoon strip first appeared in the "Sunday Post".

Jings , Crivven's, and Help ma boab!!! He's Oor Wullie! Your Wullie! A'body's Wullie!  

Yes 85 years ago publishers, DC Thompson introduced a four page "Fun Section" which included two comic strips written in Scots vernacular. Little did they know these would still be running more than eighty years later.

Oor Wullie, chronicles the adventures of a mischievous young boy in an unnamed town. Much speculation prevails as to where Wullie actually lives; some think it is Dundee where the Sunday Post was published; whilst others believe he lives in Glasgow because in 1938, the characters walked to the Empire Exhibition held in Bellahouston Park: later in 1988 the family again walk to and from the Glasgow Garden Festival. In a later episode he even cycles to Loch Lomond. But as the decades have rolled by it became clear Oor Wullie lived in the imaginary town of Auchenshoogle .

More controversy prevails as to what was Oor Wullie’s surname; some sources quote MacCallum whereas others cite, Russell. Wullie had an uncle Wattie Russell, a wartime private in one of the Scottish regiments. No one is quite sure however whether Wattie was related to Wullie's father's or came from his mother's side of the family.

Oor Wullie was created by Scottish comic writer and editor, Robert Duncan Low who wrote word sketches which Dudley Dexter Watkins illustrated. Low insisted the characters be based on real working class people and Watkins took Robert’s son, Ron for inspiration. The wee lad had innocently accompanied his father to work one day wearing dungarees and carrying a bucket of potatoes. Watkins added the famous spiky hair and Oor Wullie was born.

  Our hero shares his home with his Ma and Pa, Harry the West Highland Terrier and Jeemy his pet moose. In the early days and for a short time he had a younger sibling (the bairn). The next door neighbour much later was Moaning Mildew (modelled on Victor Meldrew from One Foot in the Grave). Our hero’s favourite food is mince and tatties and his Ma’s Roly-poly pudding. His three best friends are Fat Boab, Soapy Soutar and wee Eck and the gang meets in a caravan called Holly Rude. Wullie is the self-proclaimed leader a position which is frequently disputed by the others. The boys love to go fishing in the nearby burn (the Stoorie) or race their cairties (boogies) down Stoorie Brae.

  The mischievous Wullie’s of old, loved to steal orchard apples and use P.C.  Murdoch‘s helmet as target practice with his catty (sling shot). However what was seen as youthful high jinks in the 1930s might be considered anti-social vandalism today so as the decades passed his antics have become a lot tamer. Otherwise its business as usual and Wullie’s unrealistic get-rich-quick schemes lead to mischief and continue to give his long suffering parents and local constabulary humorous concern.

  Come what may the strip always ends with Willie seated on his bucket procrastinating about the day’s events. Occasionally he rests on padding or cushions especially if he has had his erse skelped

[quarterfromcanon]

#afewofmyfavoritethings

Heather & Valencia - Femslash February - Day 17 - Cold [2,838 words]

“Um... guys? You might wanna come take a look at this.” 

The cushion of the sofa dipped beside Heather when Valencia joined her at the window. Paula and Rebecca leaned over the armrests and pulled back the lace curtains. The group gazed through the frosted pane at the rolling hills that had transformed into a wintry world overnight. 

Rebecca squealed. “It’s even better than I expected! I know the weather called for snow but look at all that!” Her nose bumped the glass as she craned to take everything in, and she pulled away from the frigid contact. “Oh, it’s so much prettier when there aren’t cabs driving through it and city grime isn’t turning the drifts all gray and gross. The view from my mom’s house was okay, but nothing like this.” She sighed. “Well, ladies, I think you know what this means.”

“Photo sesh?” Valencia shifted to access the phone in the pocket of her space onesie.

“Snowman contest?” Paula rubbed her hands together. She grinned in the dangerous way that told them all they were toast before construction even began.

“Sledding?” Heather suggested. She dropped to a seated position and leaned against Valencia’s biceps.

“Okay, yes to all of that,” Rebecca pointed at each of them in acknowledgement. “But for the grand finale...,” she paused for dramatic effect and shimmied, “... snowball fight!”

“Oh boy,” Heather murmured. She watched the competitive gleam ignite behind the eyes of the other three women. “This is gonna be a bloodbath.” 

They broke off in separate directions. Paula wandered down the hall to wake Scott and Tommy; Rebecca went to the loft for the end of Nathaniel’s morning exercise routine, and Heather and Valencia headed back to their room to change clothes.

Scott cooked them all breakfast beforehand -- a task which, to be fair, was no small undertaking given conflicting dietary preferences. Paula sat perched on a stool nearby, ready to intervene in the event of a crisis. However, Scott made it through the endeavor with minimal profanity and only one fleeting incident involving his apron and an open flame. The end result was an admirable improvement over the quality of his culinary skills several years ago. Strategic seasoning masked any mildly crispy edges.

“He’s getting better,” Paula noted quietly to the girls. She crossed the floor and give him a peck on the cheek. “Good job, babe.”

Scott beamed.

Once everybody was fed, fully dressed in adequate layers, and equipped with tissues for runny noses, they trooped out of the rented cabin and into the frozen landscape. The photo session came first while the neatness of everyone’s ensemble remained intact. It was agreed that Nathaniel, Scott, and Tommy could be spared on-camera participation in exchange for behind-the-scenes help getting the perfect shots. This entailed holding back tree branches that cast unwanted shadows, standing side-by-side to block glaring sunlight, and tossing gloves full of flakes into the sky so the Gurl Group would appear to be caught in the middle of heavy snowfall. The edited results were approved by all parties featured, and Paula goaded their assistants into a single commemorative picture with their mitten thumbs raised and semi-forced cheerful faces.

Snow angels met with more unanimous enthusiasm. Rebecca and Heather stood beside one another, shared a glance and a nod, then dropped backward as if they were letting themselves fall into a pool. Scott and Tommy gave each other teasing kicks with their boots every time they slid their legs in a broad chevron. Paula observed the father-son bonding from a short distance away while she made her own outline of a spiritual being. Nathaniel’s and Valencia’s approach to the activity was significantly more tentative and involved a great deal more grimacing. Once they got settled, however, they began to embrace the fun. Nathaniel’s long limbs produced very impressive wings and a flowing skirt. Valencia’s angel gave the impression of a certain grace despite the fact that her main goal seemed to be brushing Heather’s gloves with her own on each upward stroke of her arms. 

They divided into teams for the snowman contest. An hour was the chosen allotment for their creations to take shape. Additional materials were both allowed and encouraged, which caused the subsequent flurry of activity to be particularly chaotic. Their shouts echoed over the treetops. Friends narrowly escaped collisions while running and stumbling over the soft ground. 

Rebecca and Nathaniel constructed a suitably scrawny Harry Potter. He was equipped with green M&M eyes, a red licorice lightning bolt scar, a broom from the kitchen pantry, and Rebecca’s scarlet and gold scarf. Surprising absolutely no one, building the beloved protagonist led to a steady stream of magic-related innuendo spoken in undertones, the extremity of which ultimately prompted Rebecca to cover the boy wizard’s nonexistent ears. “Oh my god, contain yourself. There’s a child present.”

Heather and Valencia rendered extra roly-poly versions of their cats, Shadow and Esperanza, with stick whiskers and playfully curled tails. Esperanza had her signature queenly bearing and expression, while Shadow’s gravel eyes were upturned in pure adoration. Heather tracked down a couple of decorative glue yarn balls and wedged them beneath their pets’ paws. 

Team Proctor reached football-game-at-a-bar levels of raucousness as they worked on their entry. The Peeps for Peace t-shirt Paula slept in the night before got tugged onto their snowman’s body. They balanced a few thin logs of firewood on its shoulder and secured a hammer from Scott’s toolbox in its hand. Tommy drew a lackadaisical smirk on the snowman’s face and styled straw for the hair. When their efforts were complete, a Snow Brendan stood before them, built to scale and adorned with a heroic blanket cape.

“I wanna cry foul for emotional manipulation,” Rebecca confided to Valencia afterward, “but it’s just, like, so cute I can’t even get mad.” Valencia begrudgingly inclined her head in agreement.

To her credit, Paula managed to blink back her tears and genuinely smile for the photo they saved to send real-life Brendan later, informing him of his role in the family’s success.

The prospect of voting on hills for sledding was too daunting, so the group settled for the first drop-off they found. The guys were extended the offer to go first, due to the limited number of sleds in their possession, and they gladly accepted the chance. Nathaniel shifted from one foot to the other and brought his palms together in a muffled clap. 

“This is a race, right? There’ll be a winner?” 

Heather thumped her hand against his jacket with an indulgent shrug. “Sure, bud.” 

Nathaniel pumped his fist in the air. “Yes!” 

Scott and Tommy exchanged looks. Paula, Rebecca, Valencia, and Heather all clung to each other for support and made their way down the slope to help verify who reached the bottom first. 

“Good luck, honey!” Paula called. 

“Channel that Slytherin energy!” Rebecca paced like a coach. 

Heather nudged Valencia’s arm and angled her head. Valencia’s brow furrowed but then, following the line of sight, she got the hint.

“C’mon, Tommy!” she whooped. 

“Yeah, Tommy, you’ve got this!” Heather chimed in with her fist held high. Tommy’s chest puffed out and he readjusted his grip on the plastic toboggan.

Paula grabbed a fallen branch and dragged it through the snow to delineate the end of the path. The four judges shouted the starting cue in unison -- almost. “On your mark, get set, go!”

Scott’s style of descent was traditional but effective. Tommy barreled down the hillside on his stomach. Nathaniel’s technique reminded Heather of the luge participants from the Winter Olympics, unwavering serious features and all. Tommy and Nathaniel were neck and neck for at least three-fourths of the race but, in the home stretch, Tommy’s lean frame made him just enough faster to cross the finish line mere seconds before Nathaniel did so. 

Nathaniel was clearly frustrated by the loss but, the minute he saw Tommy’s broad grin, the irritability visible in his brow and jaw smoothed into nonexistence. He lifted his chin and approached his competitor for a congratulatory shake. “Well done, Proctor. Excellent form.”

Tommy’s eyebrows quirked at the odd formality. He clasped Nathaniel’s hand and brought him in for a couple of genial slaps on the arm. “Thanks, man.”

The girls reluctantly ascended to the crest of the rise for their turns -- an arduous journey with an entire chorus of grumbling and winded breathing. The uppermost layer of snow caved beneath Valencia’s boot and she yelped, but Heather caught her elbow and prevented the fall. 

“My hero.” Valencia secured her forearm over Heather’s to prevent a second slip.

“Full disclosure, I would’ve laughed my ass off if you slid back down the entire hill when we were this close to the top, but I also knew you’d be really pissed, so...” 

“You’re not wrong.”

Heather chuckled and hip-checked Valencia, but not hard enough to throw off their matching stride.

They arrived at their destination with a collective relieved exhale. Paula and Heather set up their respective sleds. Rebecca clambered behind Paula and held onto her shoulder blades. “Take us home, Mama!” 

Heather fronted the second toboggan while Valencia surrounded her in a tangle of limbs. “We’ve got this in the bag,” Valencia declared with confidence. 

“I mean, totally, but what makes you so sure?” Heather asked.

“Because, if you get us there first, I’ll --” Valencia noticed Paula’s and Rebecca’s attention on her. She cupped Heather’s ear and whispered the rest of her incentive for so long that Paula pretended to check an invisible watch. 

Heather’s eyebrows disappeared beneath her beanie. “Well, shit.”

“Ah, damn it,” Paula lamented.

“She promised her NC-17 stuff,” Rebecca seconded with a pout. “Now we’re really gonna have to pull out all the stops to beat them.”

Though it was not for lack of trying -- including an unsportsmanlike sideswipe midway down the incline (“Craterface ’em, Paula! It’s our only hope!”) -- they reached the bottom of the hill a heartbeat after Heather’s triumphant first place achievement. Valencia covered the side of Heather’s face in a barrage of kisses.

“Yeah, all right.” Paula fished out her camera. “Get over here so we can take a picture of our three winners, ya horny monsters.”

Valencia and Heather posed on either side of Tommy for the photo. Heather affectionately ruffled the boy’s hair and the pink in Tommy’s cheeks deepened to a bright red.

The only event that remained was the snowball fight, and its onset sparked an immediate change in atmosphere. Much like Heather predicted, no one showed any signs of restraint over their hunger for victory. They crafted forts in near silence, already coiled for the siege. Direct hits qualified as ‘out’ while a graze with a snowball meant a one minute pause behind the player’s designated barrier. Teams were the same as the divide during the building contest.

Tension rose while everyone hunkered down and waited for the first throw. 

“We probably should’ve figured this part out before --” Heather remarked, but her words were drowned out by Rebecca’s battle cry.

“UNLEASH HELL!”

Heather crouched low. “Here we go...”

The cloudless sky was blurred by a torrent of tightly packed spheres. 

“Trebuchet!” Tommy boomed.

Heather’s and Valencia’s fortress stood firm but the sound of multiple piffs of impact reached their ears even over all the yelling.

Things went eerily quiet after that. Heather peered over the wall. “The Proctors are entering No Man’s Land.”

Valencia peeked around the side. “Rebecca’s walking out to meet them. Nathaniel’s spotting her.”

What followed was a rather comedic standoff in which Rebecca lost her nerve after meeting Paula’s determined gaze and took off screaming. She zigzagged as per Nathaniel’s frantic advice and barely evaded being struck at least half a dozen times. Nathaniel’s tongue tucked into the corner of his mouth and he wiped out Tommy with a snowball square in the middle of his back. Tommy swore colorfully but accepted his fate. 

Seeing an opportunity as the chase neared their station, Heather aimed a round of icy ammo at Scott’s chest and made a hit. 

Rebecca’s panic became a single, loud “AAAAAAAAAH” before she lobbed a ball over her shoulder without warning and somehow pelted her best friend in the face. 

Paula’s vocabulary surpassed even Tommy’s creativity - like mother, like son. Rebecca apologized profusely and supplied her scarf for a towel. When Paula wiped the snow away, she cast a glance around and realized which players remained. “Ohoho, it almost makes it worth it just to watch this,” she cackled darkly.

“Bring it on, Plimpton.” Valencia tensed with a murderous scowl. Nathaniel rose to his feet.

Their other opponent veered toward the encampment, and Heather planted herself between Rebecca and Valencia.

“You and me, Davis,” Rebecca challenged. “Moi et toi. I’m unstoppable now!” 

Heather darted forward without hesitation. Rebecca had to swerve to avoid the attack. Valencia hurled a snowball with all her might and then ran full-tilt in search of a better location to strategize. 

Rebecca and Heather wound up traversing uneven soil and tripped simultaneously. From that point on, they were both too busy giggling to pursue each other in earnest. They faked left and right and jogged in circles. When they found themselves face-to-face again, they reached the unspoken decision that enough was enough. Heather separated her snowball into two, one for each hand, and Rebecca held her arm at the ready. Rebecca’s fingers whacked against Heather’s side while Heather sandwiched Rebecca’s face between both palms. They erupted in uncontrollable laughter and hugged.

“Oh, come on!” Paula groused from her seat on the cabin steps. “Where’s the carnage?”

Scott tapped her knee and pointed to the far side of the clearing. “I think that might be coming up.”

Valencia wove through a copse of trees. She held her coat in a cup formation stuffed with snowballs that were perilously close to leaving the makeshift pouch. Her arm windmilled every so often with remarkable force, leaving her tracker to dodge the sudden breeze past his ears. Nathaniel paced himself with an armload of ready-made orbs condensed for swift delivery. Those he let loose tumbled to the earth or broke against bark on the trunks. Nothing found its mark.

“Make a stand and take your shot, V!” Heather projected the command to carry across the distance between them. 

“Yeah, avenge your lady!” Tommy added from the porch railing.

The adversaries returned to the middle of the playing space and paused to catch their breath. 

“Yoga and spinning are non-confrontational,” Valencia panted. “This is seriously not my area of expertise.”

“Follow your gut,” Paula recommended, although her tone and premature wince indicated that she was not optimistic about the outcome.

Nathaniel wound back his arm. Valencia did as her friend told her and took action on instinct. She launched herself at an angle, shoes-first, to glide past Nathaniel’s feet. He adjusted the throw and caught her on the clavicle. Her snowball flew back at a curve and nailed the small of his spine.

The assembled companions reacted as one with exclamations and applause. Nathaniel held out a hand for Valencia. She stood without assistance and shook the outstretched palm. 

“Good game?” Nathaniel said cautiously.

Valencia bared her teeth in a terrifying smile. “Prepárate, gigante. Próxima vez, peleamos en mis términos.”

Nathaniel gave a respectful nod. “Comprendo.”

They returned to the warmth of the cabin, exhausted but happy. Rebecca helped Nathaniel remove his silver and green scarf and they commandeered the coziest couch in front of the fireplace. Paula went in search of extra towels and blankets while her husband and son retreated to the bathroom to drape their wet winter gear over the tub. Heather and Valencia walked to their bedroom and the waiting comfy clothes in their luggage.

“Oh my God, my thighs are like a fire engine,” Valencia announced as she sat on the bed. Heather knelt and rubbed the numb skin until the friction started to drive the discoloration away. She received thanks in the form of a grateful nuzzle before Valencia crossed the room to find the fluffiest pajamas available.

While Heather tugged on a sweater and sweatpants, Valencia rolled up an already used pair of leggings and crammed them against the crack below the door.

“What are you up to over there?” Heather inquired without facing her.

“Soundproofing.” Valencia twisted the lock with a click.

Heather climbed into bed and turned down the other side to make space for Valencia. “That’s thoughtful of you.”

“Mm, I figured the others might appreciate it.”

“I’m sure they do.”

Valencia wriggled under the comforter and pulled Heather toward her. “We’ve got at least an hour before dinner’s ready.”

Heather inched Valencia’s shirt collar aside gradually and trailed kisses all the way to her shoulder. “Are you sure that’ll be enough time?” 

“Maybe.” Valencia maneuvered by degrees until Heather was horizontal against the mattress. She tugged Heather’s earlobe with her teeth and wrapped one leg around her waist. “If we start right now.”

[purrpickle]

Random Pezberry Thought of the Day #100

Santana ‘oofed!’ when a small body jumped onto her shins. Before she could snap up, Rachel’s hands slapped onto her shoulders, stopping her.

“Wait!” the girl hissed at her, somehow commanding while at the same time under her breath, “Don’t kick him off!”

“Him? What the fu-!” 

Santana exhaled violently out of her nose when Rachel clamped her hand over her mouth, shushing her with a, “Don’t scare him off, either!” 

Glaring at her, but now free to angle one of her shoulders up, pushing her elbow under her, Santana looked past Rachel to identify what was wriggling up her thighs. She gasped.

“You didn’t tell me you had a puppy!” she exclaimed, ducking under Rachel’s hand to sit up. Scooping up the small English bulldog happily about to bite a slat of her Cheerio skirt, Santana plopped him in her lap, crossing her legs to make a suitable platform. “And a bulldog. Didn’t think you had it in you, Berry.”

“English bulldog,” Rachel smiled. “Thank you for not kicking him off. My bed’s already pretty tall, so any more height could have hurt him.”

Santana cupped the puppy’s small barrel chest, her other hand scritching between his ears. “How did he even get up here? And, please don’t tell me his name’s Jean Valjean.”

The puppy snuffled Santana’s palm, licking it, his little butt wiggling.

Rachel’s cheeks pinkened, either with embarrassment or indignity. “Fiyero.”

“Fiyero!” Santana laughed.

“And there’s a ramp.” Rachel pointed towards the end of her bed. “He can’t manage stairs yet.”

“Yeah, considering he’s the size of a pygmy mouse.” Turning her head, grinning at Rachel, Santana jabbed her shoulder out towards her. “I’m surprised you actually let him on your bed.”

Rachel looked at her. “I let you on here, didn’t I?”

“Hey!”

Smiling, Rachel leaned forward, petting Fiyero’s head. “I love his little rolls,” she commented, stroking the one above his nose.

Santana hummed, nodding. “Yeah, he’s a pudgy little thing. When did you get him?”

At that, Rachel beamed proudly, and, ignoring Santana’s protest, picked Fiyero up to pull him back and cradle him in her arms. “Last week. But he already knows his name, don’t you?” she cooed down at the puppy eagerly wiggling to get a tongue or nose on her chin, “Fiyero. Such a good puppy.”

“Normally I’d shudder at the thought of hearing Rachel Berry make baby speak,” Santana smirked, shifting closer to get a better angle to scratch Fiyero’s chin, “But I’ll let it go this time.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “How kind of you.” 

“I try.” When Rachel’s phone on the bedside table went off, Santana grinned, motioning for Rachel to hand Fiyero to her. “Gimme!”

Hesitating, then sighing dramatically, Rachel held Fiyero out... Only to plop him onto her bed in between them, his stubby legs bowing for just a second before he got his bearings. And immediately scrambled to Santana, who’s body was nearest him. Laughing at Rachel’s pout, Santana let him thwump against her knee, the puppy dropping and rolling over so she could rub his belly. “Oh yeah,” she praised, “Handsome little boy. You know who’s got the goods.”

Huffing under her breath, Rachel reached over for her phone. “Enjoy him while you can. We’re going to have to put him out soon, mmn,” she straightened, pushing her hair over her shoulder, “So we can concentrate on our report.”

“Boo.” Picking Fiyero up and pressing him against her cheek, laughing as his small tongue swiped along her cheekbone, then groaning and moving him away when he made to lick her mouth next, she placed him back onto her lap. “We don’t need to do that. He won’t be distracting.”

Rachel raised her eyebrows pointedly, hiding a smirk when Fiyero yawned, Santana’s attention reflexively drawn back to him. 

The Cheerio shifted, rolling her eyes. “Fine, fine.” She squished Fiyero’s head between her hands, massaging his ears back and forth, like one last cuddle.

“Come here.” Putting her hands out, coaxing Fiyero to excitedly stumble out of Santana’s lap, snuffling at her and arfing excitedly as Rachel slid off the bed to carry him to her door, Rachel kissed the top of his head before setting him outside her door, patting him, “Sorry, honey, but we need to do some homework,” and closed the door quickly but slowly enough so she didn’t accidentally close it on him.

Rachel had only made it a step back towards the bed and her desk and their homework, when whining started up in earnest. She stopped, took another step, stopped again when Fiyero whined again, and scowled at Santana’s deeply smug look. “Fiyero,” she called.

The whining quieted.

Rachel nodded. When she reached for her textbook left open on the bed, a soft thump followed by more whining started up. She wavered.

“What’cha gonna do, Berry?” Santana smirked at her, picking up her book that had slid to the side; she made preparations as if to retake her spot lounging on the mattress.

Rachel narrowed her eyes at her, then flinched when another whine sounded. “I really must teach him good manners...” she said, as if convincing herself.

“Mmhm.” Raising her eyebrows, Santana found her place in the book again. “What if he starts scratching?”

Rachel gasped. “Fiyero wouldn’t do that!”

Santana quirked her eyebrows, looking at the door as another ‘thump!’ sounded, as if Fiyero, figuring his puppy cries weren’t working, was now trying to nose his way inside. The cheerleader sighed, almost long-sufferingly. “Don’t your dads have an open door policy?” she asked.

“What? I - I mean, yes?”

Santana looked at her.

Blinking, opening her mouth, Rachel stopped in the act of starting to shake her head. “Oh! Open door policy. “ Her face brightened. “I wouldn’t be giving in. Just following my fathers’ rules. You’re right. You just have to promise we’ll get our work done.” Barely waiting for Santana’s rolled eyes agreement to spin back around towards the door, Rachel paused, turning back to face Santana again. “Though I want to make sure that you don’t feel like your identity as a lesbian is the only reason why that rule might be enforced. My fathers like me to have my door open even when I have other, non-potential ‘love-interests’ over.”

“Berry.” Santana picked up one of Rachel’s pillows, throwing it at her face. “Stop. I’m gonna gag if you keep so much as lumping me as someone with the potential of wantin’ in your pants.” She went ahead and fake gagged anyway, making a face, “So shuts up and let Roly Poly back in already.”

The moment Rachel opened the door, Fiyero eagerly pushed his way in, jumping at her feet. His little tail wagging, upending his back legs’ sense of balance, didn’t stop him from trying to wiggle his way into Rachel’s hands before they could wrap around him first. 

Santana sat up. “See, no more whining. Now bring ‘im here.”

“That’s hardly a conducive way to convince me you’ll be able to concentrate,” Rachel smiled, easily avoiding Santana’s hands as she walked past her to take a seat at her desk, resting Fiyero on her knees.

As if in agreement, the little bulldog snuffled, nomming her hand.

Narrowing her eyes, Santana snatched her book up. “Just you wait. He’ll soon get tired of your knobby knees and comes back to me.” She smirked. “No one can stay away.”

“I applaud your confidence, but for now he’s staying right here,” Rachel answered, not sounding sorry at all. And with that, ignoring the cheerleader’s assertion that she always got to see Fiyero whenever she wanted, Rachel slowly began rotating her desk chair so she faced her desk and computer again. Rubbing her hand softly but steadily along Fiyero’s back to calm him, she succeeded in him only letting out a soft noise and yawn instead of trying to wriggle off her when she inched her legs under it.

Lying back on the bed, Santana rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “He wanted my legs first,” she muttered. “He’ll be back.”

Rachel smiled humoringly, switching which hand to pet Fiyero so she could pick up her mouse again. “You’re a handsome boy, aren’t you?” she whispered down at him, ‘awwing’ as he yawned in response, his puppy energy spent already. “Yes you are,” she finished, rubbing the roll above his nose. 

Behind her, Santana groaned. “Gross. Rachel Berry baby speak again.” Finding her place in her book again and picking up her notebook in preparation of taking more notes, she paused. “But, for the second time, I’ll be extremely charitable and let it go.” She smirked. “But only because of the Roly Poly. Not you.”

Rachel hummed neutrally. “Thank you, Santana.” 

Resettling himself on Rachel’s lap, nudging himself back under her hand, Fiyero let out a thank you snuffle-sigh of his own, too.

And behind her book, Santana smiled.

[meteorjamyourdickinme]

Then We Had You

Prompt: Children 

Summary: And just trying to absorb the reality of what had just happened. Of how their lives had just casually been altered forever. 

Rating: G

Word Count: 1700+

A/N: This is my second submission for the KagaKuroko Weekend Event. Their little ball of sunshine is an OC that @tetsucchin and I have created and sadly (not at all) love like our own. If you guys have time, you should definitely check it out and participate! 

If Kagami had said that he hadn’t breathed a sigh of relief when the hospital room door closed behind Murasakibara, he would have been a liar.

He should have known the instant that Kuroko received a text from Kise asking if he could come visit that chaos would certainly ensue. And damned if he wasn’t right.

Within ten minutes of the first text, ‘just Kise’ had turned into ‘Aominecchi is coming too’, followed shortly by Midorima deciding that he simply had no other chance during the week to visit so he might as well tag along, and Akashi conveniently being in the neighborhood with enough time to stop by. He wasn’t even entirely sure how Murasakibara ended up in the mix. Probably bribed with candy. Most likely bribed with candy.

Kagami had never heard so much noise in his life. Arguing and ear-piercing squeals and Midorima reciting the traits of the Aquarius as though they hadn’t heard them in relation to Kuroko a million times before. He was just reaching the precipice of pulling his hair by the roots and telling them all to get the hell out when, almost miraculously, they all decided they should probably leave before it got too late. He was not going to change their minds.

When the door’s latch clicked into place, filling the room with a blissful silence, Kuroko sighed from his spot on the bed, rolling onto his side so he could peer through the railing at his husband.

“How is he?”

Kagami tugged down the blanket swaddling their newborn with the tip of his finger, almost giggling as he was met with mirroring red eyes that were all too human in their portrayal of a confused What the hell was that?!

“He’s fine. A little shocked, from the looks of it. Poor guy didn’t know he was going to be ambushed today.”

“I was afraid he was going to cry,” Kuroko said, with good reason. Four times, Yoake’s little face had screwed up in the threats of a fit when the noise level had gotten too high, or he was jostled about too much in strange arms.

“Nah.” Kagami gently tucked the blanket back around the sweetest round cheeks, leaning in to peck Yoake’s forehead. “He’s a tough little guy.”

Kuroko smiled, nestling deeper into his flat pillow, exhaustion creeping up his spine. They’d been up and moving for almost two days. Fourteen hours of labor had been the most terrifying, excruciating ordeal they had ever gone through.  And soon after their son had been born, he and their surrogate had been wheeled to different rooms in the wing. So the pair of them had been going from room to room for hours, feeding, fetching food, adjusting pillows, changing diapers. And just really trying to absorb the reality of what had just happened.

Of how their lives had just casually been altered forever.

But, while Kuroko was struggling to stay upright and keep his eyes open, Kagami was surprisingly chipper. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, he was smiling. Still moving at a mile a minute. Insisting that Kuroko lay in their hospital bed while he took care of the baby for a while. He’d be fine, Kuroko, that’s what they took those parenting classes for, wasn’t it?

The redhead was bouncing their son now, as much as the cramped armchair beside their bed would allow, Yoake’s wide eyes drooping slightly.

“There we go,” Kagami cooed, unable to resist another kiss to hair that smelled like powder. “They’re not so bad, huh? Well…when they’re not around.”

Kuroko chuckled under his breath, reaching through the railing to swat halfheartedly at his husband. Kagami grinned, leaning back against the chair.

“You’ll learn to live with them. They’re a bit loud and obnoxious, but…they love you. I promise.”

Yoake blinked up at him. Apprehensively.

“What? I’m telling the truth. Kise almost fainted when we told him we were having you. Almost fainted when we showed him the nursery. Did faint when we texted him that you were being born…”

Kagami drifted off, mouth twisted a bit, until Yoake sniffed loudly, shaking him from his thoughts.

“But he loves you. Adores you. I think he thinks you’re the greatest thing in the entire world. And…I think your dad and I are gonna ask him to be your godfather. What do you think?”

He waited, staring down into eyes that stared back.

“…I knew you’d agree. Now, Akashi…he’s a bit…new. He used to be crazy. Like, genuinely crazy. It wasn’t his fault or anything, but he tried to stab me. In the face.”

“…Taiga-kun.”

“But he’s okay now. And believe it or not, I think he was pretty excited for you too. But I don’t think he really knows how to act around kids, so he might be a bit awkward at first. You’ll just have to give him time to warm up to you.”

The redhead had nearly blanched when Kagami had plopped the boy into his arms without warning. Warming up was, in all likelihood, going to take quite a bit of time.

“The tall purple thing, that was Murasakibara. He kind of…well, he doesn’t really do much. I think he was happy to see you, but I’ve never really seen him happy, so I’m not sure. He just usually eats a lot. We’ll make sure he doesn’t try to eat you.”

“He’s so sweet, that might be a problem,” Kuroko added, reaching out to gingerly pet Yoake’s hair.

“Midorima’s more practical than the rest of them. He’s already thinking of colleges and careers for you. He refuses to let you just be a cute little roly poly while you can. But, he’s competent. And can change a diaper. So…,” Kagami winced apologetically. “I think we’re gonna use him as a babysitter when we can. Sorry, kiddo.”

Kuroko let a piece of Yoake’s shaggy hair curl around his finger.

“You’re forgetting someone.”

Kagami pursed his mouth, glancing up at the corner of the ceiling as he pretended to think.

“No. No, I got everyone that’s important.”

“Taiga-kun.”

He heaved a sigh, muttering under his breath.

“…Aomine is a dick. But he seems like less of a dick around you, so…cool.”

Kuroko snickered, shaking his head.

“Good enough, I suppose.”

“And you haven’t even met Seirin yet.”

It was true. They had only been at the hospital for a short time (though it felt like eons), and Kuroko suspected they would only be there for maybe another day, so Seirin was more than likely going to have to wait until they were nice and settled in the apartment to come visit. But Kuroko was beyond thrilled for their old team to meet the newest member. From the way Kagami’s eyes lit up at the mention, he was too.

“Wait until you meet Kiyoshi. Something tells me you two are going to get along great.”

“Our house is going to be so loud when he actually gets big enough to play with him.”

Kagami hummed happily.

“You’ll have to ignore Hyuuga. His bark is worse than his bite. Most of the time. He might take it easy on you. Where you’re so cute and all.”

“Captain wouldn’t be happy hearing you talk like that,” Kuroko warned.

“Which is why I’m not saying to while he’s around.”

The blue-haired boy snorted softly, drawing his hand back against his chest as he curled into a ball. It was nice, hearing Kagami ramble on about the ones they loved most. Especially when Yoake was staring at him so intently, enraptured with Kagami’s tone and how his father’s face grew more animated as he went.

“Mitobe will always take care of you. Always. He’s been like a mother to all of us for years. He’s just a little quiet. And Izuki will make jokes. All the time. All the time. You don’t have to laugh if they’re not funny. But it makes his day when you do, so maybe you could a few times.”

“What if he thinks Izuki-kun is hilarious?” Kuroko murmured.

Kagami gave him a pained look, earning a content smile for his efforts.

“Koganei has a cat mouth. Yeah, I know, it’s weird. But he’ll love you. And Furi’s pretty great too. He’ll probably teach you a lot about confidence and not giving up when it gets hard. You’ll learn a lot from him.”

Yoake sighed again, lashes fluttering slowly. It wasn’t just Kagami and Kuroko that were feeling the stress of the last two days.

“Coach is the best. She can be scary, but she just wants the best from you. She knows what you’re capable of. And she knows how to get that potential to come true. She takes care of all of us. She’ll take care of you too. And all the others. They’ve been waiting not-too-patiently to meet you.”

“You can’t forget about Himuro.”

“Himuro.” Kagami chuckled, shaking his head. His brother had been there the very hour Yoake was born, and waited several more before he was allowed in to visit. But that hadn’t dampened the absolute joy etched on his face as he held their bundle for the first time, at a total loss for words.

“Tatsuya will act all big and tough, but don’t you buy it for one second. You’ve been here for two days and you already have him wrapped around your finger. He’s been looking forward to you since the very second we told him you were coming.”

Kagami reached to trace the curve of Yoake’s cheek, melting as a tiny hand sought out his finger to squeeze reassuringly.

“Alex…Alex is special. She’s the closest thing to a mom I have. And she is going to kiss the shit out of you. I’ll try to hold her off as long as I can, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. Just hold your breath.”

Kuroko giggled at that, reaching through the railing once again to tangle his fingers with his husband’s. Kagami’s buzz waned as Yoake’s soft lashes blinked slowly, touching his cheeks as they closed with a tired sigh.

“So many people love you already.”

So many. So many calls, so many texts, so many well wishes. Kagami couldn’t recall when exactly they had garnered so many friends, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. Well, at least not while they were all in one room together, anyway.

“Just not more than me and your dad,” Kagami continued, giving Kuroko a lingering stare as the man released an incredible yawn, curling further in on himself, fingers becoming slack in Kagami’s hold.

So casually, their lives had been altered forever.

“We’ll always love you the most.”

[swan-archive]

some fig tree wereverse content, nothing much to see here. takes place maybe a month or so after the events of “crawl til dawn on my hands and knees.”

You end up having a lot of mending on your hands when you’ve got a werewolf pup in the house, it turns out. Scuffed trouser knees from going on all fours too early, claws torn through the toes of stockings, buttons torn away from a daring wriggle through a just-barely-wide-enough gap under a fence, you name it, Alexander has done it to his clothes, and with a vengeance. Hence the small mountain of clothes in need of patching lying there on the settee next to Rachel.

She hasn’t been avoiding doing it, not really, not actively, but the task has been picked up and then put down again more times than she can count in the past few weeks. Always some slightly more urgent fire to put out, something that needs her hands on it immediately, until this morning Alex had come out to breakfast wearing breeches with a great rent torn in one leg. She’d been obliged to cut a tail-hole in his last good pair of trousers so as not to leave him wandering around looking like a beggar.

So: this is the emergency that requires her attention now. She pricks her thumb with the needle, curses softly and sucks away the bead of blood before it can stain the shirt in her hands.

At least she has the house to herself, so she can work without interruption. James is off at work, Jamie and Alex are both out playing—the neighborhood kids have finally gotten over their fear of a wolf in their midst and welcomed Alex back into the fold. Thank God. Alex is a bright child, more willing than most to entertain himself with a book or practicing his letters, but Lord, the energy in him now, the way he tears around the house when he grows bored of his lessons. It’ll be good for him to be around other children more. Give him a chance to burn some of that off.

Lost in her own thoughts, it takes Rachel a few long minutes to process the squeak of the side door’s rusty hinge. Someone in the house. She sits up straight, heart kicking into a sprint, but no creak of boots on the floorboards, no intruders appearing in the doorway. She relaxes a little. The house settling, maybe. That’s all.

After a moment, a soft rustle and a scraping sound from the kitchen, like a chair being bumped. Then silence.

…Or maybe not. “Jamie? Alex?” Rachel calls into the back of the house. No reply. She sits still for several seconds, listening.

Another scrape, and then a quiet play-growl.

“Alexander,” Rachel says. “Alexander, you had better not be where I think you are.”

Silence again.

Rachel sighs and rises and walks into the kitchen. She nearly treads on Alex as she steps through the doorway, where he’s lying sprawled out on his belly on the floorboards. He squeaks and flinches away with a look of abject guilt on his face that would put a real dog to shame. “I didn’t do it,” he yelps, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

Rachel raises an eyebrow. Looks down at the chair nearest the door. One of its legs has fresh little toothmarks in it, and is still wet with saliva.

“I didn’t,” Alex repeats, trailing off in a pitiful whine. She’s not sure when he picked up the kicked-puppy act, but he performs it to an almost alarming degree of perfection. Even Rachel is tripped up by it, the way it pings the part of her brain that says poor little animal, poor little hurt creature before the part that can analyze what’s actually been done here.

She can’t encourage this sort of behavior, so when Alex starts in on another whimper, she interrupts as quickly as she can. “That’s it, up, out of the kitchen,” she says, catching Alex up and lifting him to her shoulder. He squirms unhappily, and it’s not like holding a child, not this time of the moon; he’s all thick fur and loose skin underneath that, wriggly and roly-poly like a baby animal. His limbs jut out at odd angles, not quite settled into the orientations that will leave Alex stuck on all fours. It’s all Rachel can do to keep him from slipping out of her arms.

“I can walk—I don’t want—”

“No, I am not letting you out of my sight,” scolds Rachel, carrying Alex back out to the front room with her. “What have we told you about chewing on the furniture, Alexander?”

“Not to do it,” Alex mumbles.

“Right. So I think, if you’re going to be in a chewing mood, you’d better stay in here with me, where I can keep an eye on you.” Rachel deposits him on the settee next to where she’d been sitting, and he turns himself around in a little circle before sinking down to the cushions with a sulky expression on his furry face.

“I don’t need…” he begins, but Rachel just looks at him, her no nonsense now, my boy look, and he trails off. Sighs, the heartfelt sigh of an inconvenienced dog, and drops his chin to his paws—to his hands. Rachel suppresses her own sigh and picks up her mending again, keeping one eye on Alex.

It’s getting worse.

Not that she ought to have expected any different, but she’d hoped, maybe, that her son was bright enough and clever enough and special enough to resist the pull of his own body, to stay himself despite everything. Which—no, that’s cruel, cruel to say he’s beyond recognition, and a lie besides. He still has his wits, his stubborn will, that smart mouth that has gotten him in trouble more than once. Still that love in him that astounds Rachel even now with its fierceness. Still the right face, a few days a month, if not right now. Plenty there to make Alexander.

As for the rest, though. Well. He’s her son, her baby, but he howls out the window at the dogs in the street and pisses off the neighbors, digs in the garden, shoves his nose into foul filthy things and makes a mess of the house like an ill-trained pet. Doesn’t understand what’s wrong with any of those things when reprimanded, or does, but too late to make any difference, just soon enough for Rachel to see the confusion and horror bloom on his face as he stands there to be corrected. And the very next day he’s off again. Can’t help himself. The curse is too insidious, the instincts taking root in his brain are too strong.

All Rachel can do is watch them do their work.

This is what comes of thinking you’re a special case, Rachel, my girl, you get your heart broken in the end every time, Rachel tells herself viciously, snipping off a thread like it’s done her a personal injury. How many people over the centuries must have been inflicted with the wolf-curse? When, in all that time, had wishes or prayers or denial or bargains ever done a lick of good to break it? Never. Not once. Stupid, Rachel, stupid stupid stupid.

Alex curls himself up in a ball. Licks at his hands and mouths them absently. And that’s a bad sign, Rachel knows from experience that he’ll chew them raw if he’s not paying attention. She reaches over and taps him on the nose.

“Don’t do that, love.”

“Mmff—sorry, Maman.” He licks the cleft in his upper lip, flexes his fingers. Wrinkles his nose in displeasure, in a way that suggests he’s going to find something else to sink his teeth into in a few minutes. Redirect that.

“You don’t need to stay right there next to me, Alex. We can fetch you your toys, and you can play, but I want you in here with me, okay?”

Alex grumbles something indistinct and curls himself up tighter, comically small. Not interested.

“What were you even doing back here so soon?” Rachel asks, more gently. “I didn’t hear you come in. I thought you were still out playing with your friends.”

“I…I didn’t wanna play anymore.” He tries to give this an air of nonchalance, but he’s even easier to read than he was as a human boy—his ears droop and he glances away from her, caught in a lie. He pouts a little harder at Rachel’s skeptical look. “Well, I didn’t! I wasn’t having fun. Why should I play if it’s not any fun?”

“Hmm.” Something else there, an undertone to his voice that needles at Rachel. Ought to tease that out before it manifests itself in more furniture-chewing. She lays the shirt she’s mending aside and holds out her arms. “Baby, can you come here for a second?”

Alex puts his head up and looks at her with ears pricked suspiciously, but the offer of physical contact is too much for him to pass up, and he crawls over into her lap. Puts his arms around her neck after a moment, as if remembering that that’s how a child ought to cuddle, waggles his tail side to side as he gets comfortable. Rachel runs a soothing hand down his back and feels the tension coiled there, like he’s about to spring at a rat or a bird. No wonder he’d needed to get his teeth in something.

“Do you want to tell me what happened out there, Alex?”

“Nothing! Nothing happened—”

“Alexander.”

Alex will fuss and grouse and put on a brave face until the cows come home, if you let him, Rachel knows this, recognizes her own stubborn pride in that. Where gentling him won’t work to tease out the truth, sometimes a bit of extra firmness will. Show him he’s not fooling anyone, and let his talkative streak do the rest.

It works. Alex huffs, bumps Rachel’s chin with his cold little nose in a last-ditch attempt at the cuteness defense, and finally says, “Nothing happened. Really. I don’t care. It was just a game. It doesn’t matter.” Alex nestles himself a bit closer to Rachel, and adds, in a very small voice, “I’m tired of always dying though.”

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“It’s—I—they always make me be the monster. Because I roar better, that’s what Peter said, but that’s stupid, I don’t roar, I’m not a lion, it’s called growling, that’s what I told him—anyway. Um.” Alex swipes at his face. The fur under his eyes a little matted, a little damp, Rachel can tell from this close, scrubbed-away tear tracks faint down the sides of his muzzle. “They made me be the monster again. And I didn’t want to, so I said, I wanna be the knight for once, it isn’t fair, but they told me you have to, it’s not as good when someone else is the monster, you do it best, and besides you can’t hold a sword when you’re crawling around on the ground like that. And then, and then Anders said, he, he said…” Alex trails off, his voice gone inhuman-rough with a snarl of anger and shame. Tears pooling again in his eyes.

“What did he say, love?”

“He said,” Alex chokes out, “well, you can’t be the knight, but maybe you can be the horse. And then he laughed. They all laughed. Like it was a really good joke.”

Oh.

Rachel’s stomach churns, searing rage and cold, leaden pity both clawing at her. How dare he, how dare that child—how dare his parents tell him that was—how dare they treat her son—

She clutches at Alex, who babbles on, unable to stop now that he’s gotten himself going. “And I, I know you said not to get mad at people, because it might scare them, but I got a little mad and I’m sorry and I didn’t mean to growl for real but then Anders’ mom—we were playing in front of his house—she came out and yelled at me and called me a—nasty word, and told me to go away and it wasn’t fun anymore anyway so I came back here. But then I was bored. So.” His shoulders quiver with one sob, another. No kicked-dog whine in his voice now, just the hitching of a hurt child. “I’m s-sorry. Sorry I chewed the chair. I shouldn’t have done it. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Alex, baby—” But what is there to say to him? You didn’t deserve that is true, but it’s  cold comfort, Alex has heard it already a thousand times, and the words trip on the fact that he acted out against another child. Not worth the reaction he got, but he should know better, it’s not safe for him to behave like that anymore, what if it had been Anders’ father home instead of his mother, and he’d had a gun—

Catastrophizing, Rachel, she thinks, reining herself in, deal with the problem you have, not the one you’re making up to scare yourself. Not useful. Not useful. Crying child in her arms, and another one out there somewhere who’s seen a monster—figure out, maybe, which of them is hurt more. God forbid it’s the other boy, but she has to be sure.

“Alexander,” she asks, as carefully as she can, “you didn’t—no one was hurt, were they—?”

“No!” Alex yelps, pushing away from her, shocked through his tears. “No, no, I said, didn’t I say all I did was growl? I wouldn’t, I’d never, I promise, I’m not bad, I know not to bite, I’m not like—like him—”

His face twists with horror, and he shakes his head hard, squeezes his eyes shut against the flood of tears, and oh, God, like him. Only one him Alex could be referring to. “No, no, no, Alex, that’s not what I meant, you’re not like that at all,” Rachel says desperately, wrapping her arms around him. Alex bares his teeth, lets out a harsh painful noise that sounds like neither child nor wolf, but in the end has nowhere else to go. He collapses against Rachel with a wail and lets her enfold him.

“I’m not like that,” Alex sobs into her dress. “I’m not, I’m not, I’m not, I wouldn’t…”

“I know, baby, I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean to growl. I know it was wrong. I know I was bad.”

“Shh. Shh. Later, love. Don’t worry about that now.”

“I’m n-nuh-not…” The rest of the sentence is lost in another wave of sobs. Rachel strokes his ears, strokes the scraggly remnants of his hair, mostly gone to fur by now, and says nothing.

Alex weeps stormily for a while, trembling and clinging to Rachel like he’s expecting her to to shove him off her lap any second. She rocks him like she’d done when he was a tiny baby, whispers little nothings against the tips of his ears. I’ve got you. I’m here. I love you, my darling, oh, I love you. You’re still my baby. You’re still mine. Nearly misses him gnawing at his paws again until he squeaks and twitches with pain in her arms. Sharp white puppy teeth digging into the pad of his thumb, when Rachel draws away to look.

“Alex, what did I say?” She tugs his hand away. He drags it back up to his lips automatically.

“Not to,” he says against his knuckles. An awful note of hopelessness in his voice, eyes dull despite the tears still glistening there. “I know you said not to. But it’s hard. I don’t know how to stop.”

Redirect, redirect, Rachel tells herself desperately. He doesn’t deserve to tear into himself for this, not for a playground disagreement. She’s not a fool, and her baby is hurting. There must be something she can do for him…

An idea occurs. She shies away from it on reflex—no, no, animal, condescending, not my baby, can’t subject him to—but all she’s got right now are bad options, and this is the most palatable. Worth a shot.

“Alex, I’m going to fetch something for you, okay? I won’t be gone five minutes. Wait for me here?”

Alex mumbles assent and permits Rachel to shift him from her lap to the settee again. He splays himself over the cushions, and she gives him a quick rub on the velvety bridge of his nose before hurrying out of the room. Back through the kitchen to grab a clean-ish rag from the shelf above the hearth, and from there out through the side door into the alley. It’s almost comically simple when she looks at it now: Alex has a chewing problem, she’d made a stew just the other day, point A to point B to point C. Still, she wishes she’d thought of it a little sooner, before she’d thrown the kitchen trash out for the neighborhood strays to take care of.

Rachel approaches the garbage heap, and it’s their lucky day, because there are still a couple of chunks of soup bone resting at the top. She picks up the largest one gingerly between thumb and forefinger. Must be a reason it hasn’t yet been carried off, Alex could probably tell her what makes it a less desirable tidbit, but it’s what they have to work with. With a grimace, she dunks her rag in the rain barrel standing nearby and scrubs the bone off as best she can—luckily, it hasn’t been sitting out long enough to pick up a particularly foul stench—and carries it into the house.

Alex perks up immediately when she walks back into the front room, hops down off the settee and lurches toward her on all fours, sniffing the air. Rachel holds out the bone awkwardly and the flash of mute unthinking delight in his eyes cuts her to the core, but he recoils just as quickly from her hand and ducks his head.

“I thought…you said I wasn’t allowed. Not from the garbage heap,” he says, and of course a quick wash wasn’t enough to hide the smell from him. He tugs at one ear, his gaze flicking from the bone to Rachel’s face with the nervous energy of an animal that’s scented a trap.

“We can make an exception. Just this once.” Rachel kneels down to his level and brushes her fingertips against his muzzle. “I’m going to give you this, okay? It’s for you to chew. But I want you to promise me that as long as you have it, you’re not going to go after the furniture, or your own hands. Can you do that for me, Alex?”

“Yes, Maman,” he chirps, nodding hard enough to make his ears flop about, his tail already up and wagging again. “I can, I will, I swear I’ll never ever do it again.”

And how many times has a man told her that particular lie? More than enough for her to know better than to believe it, that’s for sure. Never again. I promise. I’ll never hurt you. Never leave you. Never let you down. This was the last time.

Alex isn’t James, though, isn’t Johann. Isn’t even George. He’s just a baby. Too young for willful malice and too young for the little white lies told to soothe a cut that’s already bleeding. He means exactly what he says in the moment, and maybe he’ll even keep his promise for a while, until the next time he’s bored or hurting or angry and he doesn’t think, he just acts. It hurts a little less, knowing he’s sincere. Just a little less, though.

Rachel could probably extract a better promise out of Alex if she were made of sterner stuff. Scare him into compliance, scold him until his canine brain understands this is not how we behave, not be shaken by his big sad eyes or the face of a baby animal, something that needs to be cuddled and cosseted and protected. Make him safe, no matter what it takes.

But Rachel is already made of, pardon her language, pretty fucking stern stuff. Wouldn’t have made it to this point if she weren’t.

This is the way things are. The wolf demands concessions, one way or another, and denying it the small things now only means it’ll need more from her when she finally caves. So.

She waggles the bone tantalizingly, ignores the twist in her gut. “Go ahead, then.”

With a yip of excitement, Alex snatches the bone out of her hands and settles down on the floor before the settee with it, his crying jag all but forgotten. Easier for him to keep a grip on it, with his stubby fingers and thumbs, than it would be for a dog, but he sinks his teeth in with the same half-starved gusto as you’d see in a stray, rumbles out a happy growl that makes Rachel’s hair stand on end. The growling is hard to bear. Whines and yelps could almost be child noises, and any old hound can bark, but the growl is a predator’s sound, too deep and too wild for a little boy.

Alex puts his head up, cocks it at her, and Rachel realizes she’s staring. She gives him a small wave to cover. His tail frisks, back and forth.

“Thank you, Maman,” he says. “It’s good. Better than the chair.”

“That’s…I’m glad, baby,” says Rachel, forcing a smile. It is good. Really it is. Not such a difficult fix, in the end. She can start saving the soup bones after she cooks with them. No big deal.

Rachel scoots over so her back is against the settee, sits there on the floor with her skirts spread around her like she’s a girl. A girl and her dog. The soup bone creaks a little under Alex’s onslaught, and it might be worth it to fetch the other scraps on the trash heap for when he finishes with this one. Later, though. Later. Alex flashes a wolfish grin at her, his tongue lolling out, and she reaches over to scratch at the side of his neck. Drool on his chin. Rachel ought to wipe that away, chide him for being messy and uncouth. Doesn’t.

With a sigh, she pulls her sewing basket down onto her lap and picks up the half-mended shirt again.

[zooophagous]

Apologies I don't mean to be a bother by asking this, but what's wrong with macs owners way of taking care of him?

@kaijutegu has a much better breakdown if it than I can give you, but the short of it is:Mac is fat. He wasn't always fat, but his owners overfeed him because he gets Hella views on instagram when he gets fed. They deflect this by saying male red tegus are naturally roly poly and jowly (correct) but he's over the line, possibly to the point it could be harming his bone structure.The newest discourse happened when they posted a picture of Mac at an In-n-Out Burger with a caption insinuating he'd eaten a cheeseburger.Whether or not he consumed, in whole or in part, a cheeseburger, he is still a very burly boy who needs a serious diet. To others who see how nice Mac is and think about wanting a tegu of their own, its a bad example, as they may overfeed or feed poor choices to their new charges because Mac gets fed like that and he is the face of the red tegu online.I don't think Mac's humans are malicious, they have simply fallen into the trap so many pet owners do: making a pet obese because it's so garsh darn cute.

[thesearemyscarsorg]

Hello Barkners, today is International Dog Day. In my opinion, at least in my house, every day is dog day, and I would have it no other way. For those who don’t have a dog, you don’t know what you are missing! Although I promised an update, I must delay (again). Needless to say, I am fine since I’m writing this, for a detailed account, you’ll have to wait.

I wish I could say I’ve had dogs all my life, but as a kid, I had a cat. He was a lovely grey short hair and as sweet as can be. We had him from the time I was six until the crazy blackout in 2003. When he crawled up into my lap and quietly slipped away. It wasn’t for a few years that I would consider getting another “pet” this time however I wanted a dog. I have always wanted a dog, it just wouldn’t be until my 20’s until I actually got one.

If you know anything about me, I do my homework! I took great pains to just decide what breed I would want. I knew I wanted a dog dog, not a cute toy purse dog. I wasn’t active enough for a working dog, hound dogs could be noisy, although I do have a soft spot for beagles. Sporting dogs I know evoke an allergic response that renders me into a wheezing coughing mess. Herders are gorgeous dogs, but needed a lot and I mean a lot of time and activity to keep them stimulated, and I didn’t have tit to give. I finally came to the conclusion that I wanted a terrier. Typically a big dog in a little body and a sassy attitude to boot, I was sold! More specifically, I chose the West Highland White Terrier. I then proceeded to research reputable breeders. I would come to rescue later.

  When I finally got the call that there were puppies available, we drove to Scorybrek Kennels and met Terry. She held in her arms two little roly-poly polar bear puppies, brothers. They say a dog chooses it’s people. I can attest that statement is true. I say this because I originaly had my sights on the bigger puppy. He however, wanted nothing to do with me. His brother without hesitation, scooted up and began nipping at my fingers. I looked at him and knew. this was our boy! How could anyone resist that crooked eared little face. I thought because of that fault no one would want him, but I did. We picked him up three weeks later, Seamus Mac Ruff. Yes that was his name. It should have been Hamish to be accurate with his Scottish heritage, but it fit him, so it stayed.

He was a gagarious soul. He saw me through some of the toughest times of my life, a big burden for a little dog, but he never failed. That little white dog brought so many so much joy. Always cheerful and happy. As he aged, he became a little ornery, but still lovable and friendly. He couldn’t ever have a passer-by not stop and say hello. The whole neighbourhood knew him, young and old alike. Sadly as his health declined, we had to make one of the most difficult and painful decisions. We had to let him go. Deaf and mostly blind, when he couldn’t recognise us, we knew it was time. After almost 14 years together, the loss is profound. I write this through tears, because that hurt is still too fresh.

My emotions are buffered, thankfully because I have my Lacey and Finnegan. Without them, I would be a mess, but they need me. Here’s where rescue comes into play. I had to leave Seamus with my mother after I got married and moved to Patrick’s apartment, he was too old to go up and down 3 flights of stairs and didn’t get along with Patrick’s cats, having tried to eat them twice. So I missed him. In order to get my Westie fix, I would have to visit my dear friend who has two of her own and at the time four others and a foster. It was one fateful visit that I met Lacey. From the first time I laid eyes on her, I knew I loved her. We don’t know what she came from, but from her timidness and fear, we could surmise she was abused and abandoned. I could see that she wanted to greet me, all the others had, but she hesitated. I could see the conflict in her mind. The wanting  to move forward but being chained back by fear. So I waited, I let her come to me. By the end of my visit, she let me pat her belly while she slept, I knew she was ours.

We adopted her a week later. She has eaten garbage, a package of raw bacon and three uncooked burgers, and a couch. She shreds paper and tinfoil. Digs up the front garden. She barked and growed at every one that approached me, even Patrick as he came to bed, she was my protector. A roll she must have known well in her former life but un-needed now. It took her a year to trust Patrick, and I mean really trust him. You should see them now, it’s ridiculous how much she loves him. She was a dog you could not scold or hit, any hint of disapproval would evoke fear and a puddle on the floor. In the beginning, she feared everything, except Patrick and me. In the beginning, it was a precarious trust. Some would ask why I took on such a damaged soul. It was because I knew she was an unpolished gem. I knew it the moment I set eyes on her. So we invested, time, love, patience and hope that she would learn to love and trust. After three years the change is amazing, the payoff priceless. She’s a dog. Still a little timid in new environments, but 1000 times better than she was.

A few months later I got a message containing a photo, it was from my friend. The rescue was getting a Westie mix. He was so dirty and matted, they didn’t know what he was until he was shaved down and bathed. He was found wandering by a river in Ohio. Likely dumped. I could tell he had been someone’s pet, his dew claws had been removed and his recall skills were very good. He was an itchy patchy mess with a chronic ear infections, apparenly not worth someone’s time or effort. At the time he’s ears were so bad, they thought he might be deaf. I didn’t care, neither did Patrick. We knew as soon as we saw his picture, it was a done deal. We picked him up from transport, and it was love. On his intake sheet, it said his name was Fabio, and that he was a snuggler. They were right about one thing, and it wasn’t his name. That changed immediately, but the snuggling, is heaven. He came to us so skinny I could feel every rib bone, his coat was thin and his feet bald from chewing, he scratched and itched, but he was so sweet. He fattened up right away and we got his ear infections under control, but the itching was a mystery. It’s all he did, bite and scratch for months, until we tried medication. Within hours, he was a different dog and no more itching. His personality masked by allergies now shone and he is quite the clown.

  I can’t fathom ever throwing these guys on any animal away! The way these two love, unconditionally and without reserve, should serve as a lesson to us all. They are my therapists and comedians, my surrogate children (I know it’s not the same), and my joy. It doesn’t matter how crappy I feel, they cheer me up. I can’t imagine my life without them. So on this International Dog Day, I leave you with the lessons I have learned from my dogs.

Love without hesitation.

Love fully and completely.

Love unconditionally.

Live in the moment.

Take in every whiff of life.

If it isn’t working, piss on it and move on.

Every bad day can be turned around with a kiss.

Never judge a book by it’s cover.

Every now and then, it’s good to wiggle your butt.

Taking a walk is good for the soul.

Naps are underated.

Disarmingly goofy                                                                                                                                 Optimistically joyous                                                                                                                             Gregarious and loving                                                                                                                             Sympathetic and wonderful

AM

    Tale of Three Dogs Hello Barkners, today is International Dog Day. In my opinion, at least in my house, every day is dog day, and I would have it no other way.

[blograzorwit]

Jest A Minute (16/11/2017) from Subroto Mukherjee

Innocent Putin---------------------- Trump says he is convinced Putin had no hand in influencing the US presidential election. Right, he didn't. Putin had no hand in making Trump the UP President. But Putin did have a leg in the process -- a leg used to trip Hillary. *** India's Most Popular Party----------------------------------- Videos have surfaced showing Hardik Patel in the company of boozing buddies. So what's the big deal? Who doesn't booze? You know what these videos have done? They have only lifted Hardik's status as leader and made him look like a leader who belongs to the biggest party in India -- the Cocktail Party! *** Hard Work Pays-------------------------- Enterprising, no? In Mumbai, bank robbers dug a 40-feet tunnel underground to enter a bank and clean out its vault. It is said that crime does not pay. Oh yeah? Well, tell that to these bank robbers who just reaped a fortune overnight! OK, it is also said that hard work pays. Have to agree with that. After all, it does take hard work -- real hard work, days and nights of hard work -- to dig a 40-feet tunnel under the ground! *** Now these bank robbers are flush with cash and the wife of one robber asked her hubby to explain the windfall. He innocently replied, "Oh, I just withdrew some money from the bank (when it was closed for the night, of course. Hee hee hee)!" *** Hell Raisers------------------ I am clueless. Totally clueless. About the importance of queen Padmavati in our history. I am no less clueless why some people are hell-bent to raise hell over this film. Now I realize that, when I was a student, I should NOT have slept through the history classes. Which accounts for my bottomless ignorance about history. Padmavati is a historical drama. But thanks to those protesting against this film, this has now turned into quite a hysterical drama! What with protesters even threatening to torch the cinemas showing this film! But the film's makers, cast and crew are doing the right thing. Inviting people to see the film before damning it. Right, I'd have done the same thing. Request one and all to come see the film -- especially all the fire fighters from Mumbai's Fire Brigade! *** Berry Berry Good------------------------- Halle Berry was in Kerala for some ayurvedic treatment. Out in God's own country, she was introduced to the wonder berry, the Indian gooseberry called amla. And boy, this berry was so berry berry good, I bet Ms Berry gushed about how the potent tangy taste of this gooseberry gave her the goose bumps! *** The Pull of Roots--------------------------- Suddenly Rishi Kapoor has been reminded of his family roots across the border and he says he wants to visit Pakistan. Rishi-ji used to be quite a dreamboat in his time, you know. No doubt all his fans in Pakistan can't wait to welcome this former dreamboat. Hey, come on, so bloody what if today he looks less of a DREAMBOAT and more of a DRUM-BOAT?   *** Versatile Vidya------------------------ I have always hailed Vidya Balan as a versatile actress, an all-rounder. And, hey, in her new film Tumahari Sulu, hamari Vidya even looks it -- all chubby cheeks, roly-poly and plump. ALL ROUND! *** King Cong or Comic Cong?------------------------------------- Sitaram Yechury feels Sonia-ji is the GLUE that binds all the liberal parties across this land. I beg to differ. To me, it's more like the King Cong Party is doomed because they are stuck with this super glue.   *** Of Mass and Amass---------------------------- You know, in our country, it's a given that a mass leader will amass great wealth overnight. But Sasikala-ji was no mass leader. She was only a PA to a mass leader. So credit certainly goes to her for amassing such a fabulous fortune. But poor Sasikala-ji. Now, from her lock-up, she is watching on TV how all her assets under lock and key are being unlocked by troops of tax hounds. *** Arthur Road Jail Awaits Mallya. Welcome, Sir!------------------------------------------------------------- Before extraditing Mallya to India, the Brit courts want to know how good the facilities are in our prisons to house Mallya. Huh? What? Hey, who do they think Mallya is -- the great emperor of Mallyasia? And why such British concern for a big con? Where, by the way, does Great Britain house its crooks -- in great 7-star hotels? OK, we acknowledge that our Arthur Road Jail in Mumbai is no Paris Hilton or London Regency but, hey, it's no Rat Palace or the Royal Roach Hotel either. (Or is it? Heck, How would I know? I have never been there!) *** Flying Into A Rage-------------------------- Seen that viral showing the ground staff of an airline giving boxing and wrestling lessons to a passenger? Pretty damning for the airline, eh? In keeping with the way it treats a passenger, the airline should change its name from IndiGo to IndiGoons! I tell you, no other airline can beat this one when it comes to beatings on the tarmac in broad daylight! I bet no other airline offers such extra services -- like a full-body massage to a passenger out in the open! Taking this airline has to be quite an experience in flight -- or rather FRIGHT! I don't know about a good flight but they sure offer a GOOD FIGHT! *** Holy Smog!------------------ For a moment, Duchess Camilla and Prince Charges must have felt that they had landed on a smoggy alien planet, with weird-looking aliens moving about. When they landed in New Delhi and found the people moving about wearing gas masks in the great smog. *** Toxic Trip------------------ Hey, if you think Rahul Gandhi''s doggie Pidi is cute and smart, then my pet doggie Baby Doll is super cute and smart! Just listen to the poem my pet has penned on the Delhi smog : SMOG so thick, can't see a thing in the soupy toxic FOG! Better not step out to JOGyou might trip over a DOGdrop and crack your TOPon a ROCK! Forget your JOBwhy work and SLOGwhen you can stay homeeat like a HOG and sleep like a LOG? Why the heck go out in Delhi FOG and croak like a FROG? (Yeah, yeah, I know it's terrible! But if I say that, my doggie will bite me.) *** Hey, You Dying To Go To The US?--------------------------------------------- Almost everyday we hear of some horrendous mass shooting somewhere in the US and I think of all the Indians here who can't wait to go and settle in wonderful US. And I think, much like us, the Devil has already done so : moved to the US, settled there and he is successfully running his Devil's Workshop in the US! The Devil's Workshop, did I say? OK, make that the Devil's Formidable Gun Shop. ***   Let The Treasure Hunt Begin!----------------------------------------- Yeah, sure, the Paradise Papers have done it -- blasted quite a few prominent names out of the water! Names of kings, queens, world leaders, tycoons, magnates, power brokers, film stars -- you name it! Ah ha, including, to our great pride, as many as 700 names from India! Oh yeah, sure, the Paradise Papers have caused a buzz and a flutter. But will this actually spell trouble in the paradise of the world's rich and famous? After all, it's the done thing, isn't it? Those who have all the money to BURN -- truckloads of cash and trainloads of black money to BURN -- they don't actually BURN the money, you know. Ha, in fact, quite sensibly they BURY the money in offshore tax havens. Hey, look at it this way : the rich and famous can be divided into two groups. Those we consider our national treasures. And those who are our international treasures. Because that's where they hide their amassed treasures -- in foreign parts. *** Crown Price and Clown Prince------------------------------------------ What's common between the Saudi CROWN prince Salman and our own Bollywood CLOWN prince Salman? They both play the hero. One plays the hero on the screen. The other is right now engaged in playing Saudi Arabia's anti-corruption hero.   One is in show business.  The other has made it his business to consolidate power. On the pretext of cracking down on corruption in Saudi Arabia, he has been busy sweeping all potential rivals out of business! *** This Calls For Prayers Indeed--------------------------------------- In Mumbai, a teenage boy lost his life to cancer a few days ago. But his family is yet to bury the poor boy. Why? Because this family has great faith -- ABSOLUTE BLIND FAITH -- in a faith healer who has promised to raise the boy from the dead! And how, PRAY TELL, will this faith healer raise the boy from the dead? The faith healer claims he can perform such a miracle through PRAYERS. Boy oh boy, when I hear of such things, I certainly start PRAYING. I PRAY for better sense to prevail on such people. *** Hawking's Pressure Cooker--------------------------------------- The iconic scientist Stephen Hawking predicts that, at the rate our planet it warming up, it will turn into a fireball in a couple of  centuries. I think Mr Hawking is way -- way -- way off the mark here. But that's only because he lives in the UK. Forget the Earth heating into a fireball later. If Hawking were living here today in the heat wave of Mumbai, he'd surely conclude that our planet has already turned into a Hawkins pressure cooker! *** Dope Test----------------- Should our cricketers be made to take the dope test? Of course not. On the other hand, our cricket fans should of course be put to the dope test. They are such dopes. Going batty over a mere game of bat and ball. And for all we know, the matches are rigged, anyway. Don't these dopes realize it's no longer CRICKET but CROOKED? *** And oh yes, the Ryan School has proved it. That no other police force can BEAT the Haryana Police. When it comes to BEATING a confession out of some poor innocent scapegoat! ***  

[scotianostra]

Jings , Crivven's, and Help ma boab!!!  He's Oor Wullie! Your Wullie! A'body's Wullie! On March 8th 1936 The Oor Wullie. 

Yes 84 years ago publishers, DC Thompson introduced a four page "Fun Section" which included two comic strips written in Scots vernacular. Little did they know these would still be running more than eighty years later.

Oor Wullie, chronicles the adventures of a mischievous young boy in an unnamed town. Much speculation prevails as to where Wullie actually lives; some think it is Dundee where the Sunday Post was published; whilst others believe he lives in Glasgow because in 1938, the characters walked to the Empire Exhibition held in Bellahouston Park: later in 1988 the family again walk to and from the Glasgow Garden Festival. In a later episode he even cycles to Loch Lomond. But as the decades have rolled by it became clear Oor Wullie lived in the imaginary town of Auchenshoogle.

More controversy prevails as to what was Oor Wullie’s surname; some sources quote MacCallum whereas others cite, Russell. Wullie had an uncle Wattie Russell, a wartime private in one of the Scottish regiments. No one is quite sure however whether Wattie was related to Wullie's father's or came from his mother's side of the family.

Oor Wullie was created by Scottish comic writer and editor, Robert Duncan Low who wrote word sketches which Dudley Dexter Watkins illustrated. Low insisted the characters be based on real working class people and Watkins took Robert’s son, Ron for inspiration. The wee lad had innocently accompanied his father to work one day wearing dungarees and carrying a bucket of potatoes. Watkins added the famous spiky hair and Oor Wullie was born.

Our hero shares his home with his Ma and Pa, Harry the West Highland Terrier and Jeemy his pet moose. In the early days and for a short time he had a younger sibling (the bairn). The next door neighbour much later was Moaning Mildew Our hero’s favourite food is mince and tatties and his Ma’s Roly-poly pudding. His three best friends are Fat Boab, Soapy Soutar and wee Eck and the gang meets in a caravan called Holly Rude. Wullie is the self-proclaimed leader a position which is frequently disputed by the others. The boys love to go fishing in the nearby burn (the Stoorie) or race their cairties (boogies) down Stoorie Brae. The mischievous Wullie’s of old, loved to steal orchard apples and use P.C. Murdoch‘s helmet as target practice with his catty (sling shot). However what was seen as youthful high jinks in the 1930s might be considered anti-social vandalism today so as the decades passed his antics have become a lot tamer. Otherwise its business as usual and Wullie’s unrealistic get-rich-quick schemes lead to mischief and continue to give his long suffering parents and local constabulary humorous concern. Come what may the strip always ends with Willie seated on his bucket procrastinating about the day’s events. 

Occasionally he rested on padding or cushions especially if he has had his erse skelped, of course all that has changed now that it is against the law to chastise your child in a violent manor.

[scotianostra]

On March 8th 1936 The "Oor Wullie" cartoon strip first appeared in the "Sunday Post".

Jings , Crivven's, and Help ma boab!!! He's Oor Wullie! Your Wullie! A'body's Wullie!

Yes 81 years ago publishers, DC Thompson introduced a four page "Fun Section" which included two comic strips written in Scots vernacular. Little did they know these would still be running more than eighty years later.

Oor Wullie, chronicles the adventures of a mischievous young boy in an unnamed town. Much speculation prevails as to where Wullie actually lives; some think it is Dundee where the Sunday Post was published; whilst others believe he lives in Glasgow because in 1938, the characters walked to the Empire Exhibition held in Bellahouston Park: later in 1988 the family again walk to and from the Glasgow Garden Festival. In a later episode he even cycles to Loch Lomond. But as the decades have rolled by it became clear Oor Wullie lived in the imaginary town of Auchenshoogle (an amalgam of Dundee and Glasgow).

More controversy prevails as to what was Oor Wullie’s surname; some sources quote MacCallum whereas others cite, Russell. Wullie had an uncle Wattie Russell, a wartime private in one of the Scottish regiments. No one is quite sure however whether Wattie was related to Wullie's father's or came from his mother's side of the family.

Oor Wullie was created by Scottish comic writer and editor, Robert Duncan Low who wrote word sketches which Dudley Dexter Watkins illustrated. Low insisted the characters be based on real working class people and Watkins took Robert’s son, Ron for inspiration. The wee lad had innocently accompanied his father to work one day wearing dungarees and carrying a bucket of potatoes. Watkins added the famous spiky hair and Oor Wullie was born.

Our hero shares his home with his Ma and Pa, Harry the West Highland Terrier and Jeemy his pet moose. In the early days and for a short time he had a younger sibling (the bairn). The next door neighbour much later wasMoaning Mildew (modelled on Victor Meldrew from One Foot in the Grave). Our hero’s favourite food is mince and tatties and his Ma’s Roly-poly pudding. His three best friends are Fat Boab, Soapy Soutar and wee Eck and the gang meets in a caravan called Holly Rude. Wullie is the self-proclaimed leader a position which is frequently disputed by the others. The boys love to go fishing in the nearby burn (the Stoorie) or race their cairties (boogies) down Stoorie Brae.

The mischievous Wullie’s of old, loved to steal orchard apples and use P.C. Murdoch‘s helmet as target practice with his catty (sling shot). However what was seen as youthful high jinks in the 1930s might be considered anti-social vandalism today so as the decades passed his antics have become a lot tamer. Otherwise its business as usual and Wullie’s unrealistic get-rich-quick schemes lead to mischief and continue to give his long suffering parents and local constabulary humorous concern. Come what may the strip always ends with Willie seated on his bucket procrastinating about the day’s events. Occasionally he rests on padding or cushions especially if he has had his erse skelped