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Authors: Michael Bond
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the next two weeks. What a blessing he hadn’t sent off a card to the Director. With his present luck the request for an extra two weeks would have been granted.
Leaving Pommes Frites to his own devices he hurried back to his room. Before leaving Ananas’ suite he’d had the foresightto pack a few magazines he’d seen lying about. They would help while away the time. Poor old Pommes Frites – he wondered what he was thinking about it all.
Pommes Frites, as it happened, had several very clear thoughts occupying his mind; three, to be precise, and for one not over-given to exercising his grey matter unnecessarily, three was quite a lot.
The first thought he’d taken care of on a large bush immediately outside the door, and very rewarding it had been too. He felt much better and ready for action. He was very glad his master had made a move, otherwise he might not have been responsible for his actions, for his second thought had to do with bones. Inasmuch as Pommes Frites ever felt guilty, he was feeling it now.
He hadn’t been quite so hungry for a long time, and he’d been finding it increasingly difficult to rid himself of a picture that had entered his mind while lying at his master’s feet. In his mind’s eye he’d suddenly seen them in quite a different light; not as objects on the end of the trouser-covered legs he had known and loved for many a year, but as bones – two lovely, juicy bones. And the longer he’d dwelt on the thought the more juicy and desirable they had become. It had been a narrow squeak. If Monsieur Pamplemousse had stayed asleep much longer he might have woken with an even greater start.
Pommes Frites’ third and most constructive thought was that if his master wasn’t prepared to do anything about their present situation then he, Pommes Frites, would have to take matters in hand personally. Unlike many of his human counterparts, it was not part of his philosophy to believe that the world owed him anything. The idea wouldn’t have entered his head. That being so, when things weren’t going right you did something about it. Which, as he set off, nose to the ground on a tour of investigation, was exactly what he intended doing.
It was some while later, almost an hour to be precise, that Monsieur Pamplemousse, having spent much of the intervening time searching for his letter and finding, to his growing concern, only a small piece of wet and partly chewed red sealing wax, heard a bump in the distance. A bump which was followed almost immediately by the sound of something heavy being dragged along the corridor.
Thinking it might be another patient in difficulty, an elderly lady perhaps, who was suffering from a surfeit of hot water, he put down his magazine with a sense of relief. Any diversion was better than none at all. Without exception the magazines had been porn, certainly not pure, but definitely simple in their single-minded approach to a subject which was capable of almost infinite variations. The only feeling of lust they inspired in him was the wish that some of the many derrières displayed could have been real. Had they been real he would have been sorely tempted to take a large bite out of them, so great was his hunger. That would have wiped the smile off some of the owners’ faces as they peered round the side, or in some cases from below, tongue protruding from between moistened lips.
By the time he reached his door the thumping was almost outside. As he opened it, Pommes Frites pushed his way past dragging a large parcel tied up with string. His face wore the kind of expression which befitted a bloodhound whose trail has led him to exactly the right spot at precisely the right time.
Having looked up and down the corridor to make sure the coast was clear, Monsieur Pamplemousse closed the door. He had no idea what the parcel contained, but at a guess, since the outside bore the name of a retailer, and below that the magic word charcuterie , it might with luck be a
Leaving Pommes Frites to his own devices he hurried back to his room. Before leaving Ananas’ suite he’d had the foresightto pack a few magazines he’d seen lying about. They would help while away the time. Poor old Pommes Frites – he wondered what he was thinking about it all.
Pommes Frites, as it happened, had several very clear thoughts occupying his mind; three, to be precise, and for one not over-given to exercising his grey matter unnecessarily, three was quite a lot.
The first thought he’d taken care of on a large bush immediately outside the door, and very rewarding it had been too. He felt much better and ready for action. He was very glad his master had made a move, otherwise he might not have been responsible for his actions, for his second thought had to do with bones. Inasmuch as Pommes Frites ever felt guilty, he was feeling it now.
He hadn’t been quite so hungry for a long time, and he’d been finding it increasingly difficult to rid himself of a picture that had entered his mind while lying at his master’s feet. In his mind’s eye he’d suddenly seen them in quite a different light; not as objects on the end of the trouser-covered legs he had known and loved for many a year, but as bones – two lovely, juicy bones. And the longer he’d dwelt on the thought the more juicy and desirable they had become. It had been a narrow squeak. If Monsieur Pamplemousse had stayed asleep much longer he might have woken with an even greater start.
Pommes Frites’ third and most constructive thought was that if his master wasn’t prepared to do anything about their present situation then he, Pommes Frites, would have to take matters in hand personally. Unlike many of his human counterparts, it was not part of his philosophy to believe that the world owed him anything. The idea wouldn’t have entered his head. That being so, when things weren’t going right you did something about it. Which, as he set off, nose to the ground on a tour of investigation, was exactly what he intended doing.
It was some while later, almost an hour to be precise, that Monsieur Pamplemousse, having spent much of the intervening time searching for his letter and finding, to his growing concern, only a small piece of wet and partly chewed red sealing wax, heard a bump in the distance. A bump which was followed almost immediately by the sound of something heavy being dragged along the corridor.
Thinking it might be another patient in difficulty, an elderly lady perhaps, who was suffering from a surfeit of hot water, he put down his magazine with a sense of relief. Any diversion was better than none at all. Without exception the magazines had been porn, certainly not pure, but definitely simple in their single-minded approach to a subject which was capable of almost infinite variations. The only feeling of lust they inspired in him was the wish that some of the many derrières displayed could have been real. Had they been real he would have been sorely tempted to take a large bite out of them, so great was his hunger. That would have wiped the smile off some of the owners’ faces as they peered round the side, or in some cases from below, tongue protruding from between moistened lips.
By the time he reached his door the thumping was almost outside. As he opened it, Pommes Frites pushed his way past dragging a large parcel tied up with string. His face wore the kind of expression which befitted a bloodhound whose trail has led him to exactly the right spot at precisely the right time.
Having looked up and down the corridor to make sure the coast was clear, Monsieur Pamplemousse closed the door. He had no idea what the parcel contained, but at a guess, since the outside bore the name of a retailer, and below that the magic word charcuterie , it might with luck be a
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