Number Three son has written 100 words today.
A synthetic bark… a real one.
Up and out with excited lustre they go.
All bark, anticipated bite.
The usual prowl of the garden
‘What are they doing?’
‘Hoping for the worst.’
A frightening burglar to scare,
or maybe the lawnmower is back to hum and splutter in its ever-so-horrifying way,
or what if next-door’s cat is plotting a malicious plan on the patio with devious Mr Fieldmouse and the Delinquent Pigeon Gang.
Disappointed with the continuously evil-free garden, they slink to their respective sofa and rug,
always keeping an ear open for something exciting to finally happen.