She lost my ball.
Traumatised, I was. The special ball… the only ball. Well, okay, I may have a couple of dozen more, but this one is the ball.
And it wasn’t my fault, whatever she says. It wasn’t me who let the hoover monster out of its lair. Well… I wouldn’t, would I? Ever.
There I was, just minding my own business… and, well, okay, maybe hers too a little… though I was not being nosey, just taking an interest, you know? She was wandering around with the sneezy stuff that she likes, the stuff that makes everything shiny and slippery (she really should try these wooden floors with paws one day). And if she should happen to be on all fours, is it my fault if I think she wants to play with the ball? ‘Specially as she was playing while she did stuff.
So, when she…
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