Yes, Scarlett and Wilson here. The Masters are … one on the couch and one in the bed. The Woman Master, the one called Auburn, the one who usually does the writing, takes the couch. Nnnngggh, Nnnngggh, she says with her nose now and then, white papery material waded up next to her face. Nnnnngggh. Disgusting! We hope it’s not catching and wonder if antibacterial hand wash works on doggie paws.
The Man Master, Dan is his name, has taken the high spot in the bedroom. He ignores us. Even at the times of day when we are always fed, he ignores us. We hate him for it. He is evil for not bounding through the house like he always does. His shoes are tucked in the closet where we can’t get to them to show our disapproval. Evil. Evil.
She, the Woman Master, pulls herself to her feet and manages to spoon food, Nnngghing with her nose into our bowls. Yuck! We’re not sure we should eat, but our hunger is beyond great. We eat. We eat. Looking for more, we roam through the house only to find our Woman Master returned to her perch on the couch, those white papery things in a box next to her. We hate her for her opposable thumbs. If we had them, we wouldn’t need her. Hah! We wouldn’t need anyone.
He, the Man Master, neglects our walks. We’re keeping our eye on him. His shoes remain in the closet.
We play bone wars in the living room and neither the She Master nor the He Master rise to tell us to hush, or to settle down, or to knock it off, or anything. Maybe they’re dead. Who then will distribute our cookies?
We’re saddened beyond consolation.
They must be dead … except for the times they get up to sit on the things that they refuse to leave open and available for our thirst. Our thirst, our thirst. Such evil masters we’ve never known.
So, we play the bone wars through the house and wait for one of them to rise from the dead. We’re taking bets on which one is first–the man or the woman. We’ve formed an offshore corporation for our online betting service. We take Visa and Master Card. Place your bets, pigeons, place your bets.