Zed Boy was sprawled next to another basset hound that looked vaguely familiar. His lip was curling and his eyes were narrowed down to meanie little slits, clearly, he wasn’t happy about something.
I sighed. How that creature got into heaven is a total mystery, he’s constantly whining and sniping about something or other. Can only think that Saint Peter has a soft spot for long dogs or something.
I sidled up and eavesdropped. Heard the word Christmas mentioned a couple of times. The other dog was nodding his head in agreement.
“Holy crap!” The words were out of my mouth before I even realised it.
Zed’s head whipped around and he glared at me. “Stay out of this, Miss Goodie-Two-Shoes-Fudgie-Wena,” he spat at me, drool hanging in globs from his hairy chin.
“Who is your friend Zeddie?” ignoring his dark looks, plonking down on a nice fluffy bit of cloud.
The other basset smiled politely, “Homer’s the name, ma’am.” He wagged his tail at me. Obviously, he had no idea he was hobnobbing with a hoodlum.
“Hi, Homer” I wiggled one of my eyebrows at him. He was rather cute, in an old doggish sort of way. “Have we met before?”
He winked at me. “You sure do look a little familiar.”
“So why are you two moaning about Christmas when it’s long since over,” I got back to business.
“We were saying that it’s not fair that mom put Christmas decorations on Benji and Quasi. Quasi had a hat. A nice stripy hat. With ears.” Zed whined.
Homer nodded in agreement. “It sure was a lovely hat.”
As I said, we heavenly hounds can see what goes on down below. Clearly, Zed had spotted something that upset him. Suddenly a dim light flickered on. Benji was my friend. Pete the Publisher’s dog! We used to bump into him and Auntie Sharon walking in the veld sometimes. I remembered him as being rather wicked. Once he and I had a romp in a mud puddle, which turned out to be a hole that some municipality dudes had dug for a tree.
I looked around wildly, “He’s not here is he? It’s way too early for him to be up here?”
“Duh!” snorted Zed. “Of course he’s not here. Mom was putting hats on them for the Lets Look photo shoot. How could he be up here? Doff dog.”
“So what’s the problem with that?” I asked patiently. “Mom’s always taking photos of dogs. And cats.”
Homer shifted uncomfortably; he was not happy with Zed being so ill-mannered.
“We were saying, before you so rudely interrupted, that we never had Christmas hats.” Zed’s brow was even more wrinkled than usual.
“And just what would you have done with a Christmas hat Zed?” I enquired politely.
“What any basset hound worth his spots would have done,” he snarled. I stared at him blankly.
“Eaten it, of course!”