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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required As Clean as a Whistle The park is a dance of colour as leaves pirouette and waltz around brazen, undressed trees. November, and the sun sits weakly even rather streakily in the sky while I fold myself quietly into this soothing, autumnal scene. BUT….. a shock of a screeching whistle announces the arrival of Miss Bossy-Glossy Wellington Boots and her thigh-high energetic, pointer dog. Another screech of whistle and the dog is off, a blur of fur becomes a flash of white-spotted lightning until in full flight, it is yanked and cranked back by the whistle’s invisible, authoritative lead. Dismayed, the dog pants waggingly and saggingly back to prostate itself at the feet of Miss Wellington’s boots, ears flick pointedly, eyes widen purposefully…. Ironically not the dog’s but Miss Wellington Boots who is ready for another controlled blast! The pointer is attentive for attention swiveling swiftly to point in the anticipated direction while the park stands on tiptoes and holds its breath awaiting the whistle’s next command and the start of test two - the park sprint! The whistle is raised, the tin mouth yelps and the pointer rockets forward; Usain Bolt on four legs. It arrows one side of the park as if shot from the bow of Eros himself. BUT…. instead of veering left in obedience it suddenly, as if on rails, keeps tracking straight, undeviatingly towards the waiting woods which like some secret, woody accomplice, opens its foliage with a sleight of trees and the pointer, the trainee disappointer, swiftly disappears. The whistle squeals, Miss Wellington’s boots click until the whistle jumps up to a pointless, pleading shriek but the dog has well and truly vamoosed even skedaddled! The whistle is now replaced by Miss Wellington’s vicious voice that screeches and screams, “Dog, heel! DOG, WHEEL!!” Sadly my park’s peacefulness has long since been breached and detonated, so I straighten out my deckchair of a body and leave through my secret woodland path stitching my way carefully through the evergreen greenery. Unfortunately, Miss W’s viperous voice flicks after me as it can be heard probing and searching amongst the trembling leaves and tottering trees for relevant pointers to the dog’s disappearance. I smile inwardly at the doughty dog’s escape for freedom - and then a mischievous thought skips wilfully into my head that, of course, it had all been…. as clean as a whistle! Ian Souter
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