Sarge was eating breakfast when
the postman rattled the letter box.
Preacher and I shot out our dogdoor to play the Postman Game, but
we were too late. Preacher gave a little howl of disappointment as the postman
rode on past Foxie’s yard.
‘That new postman doesn’t play fair,’ said
Foxie as he crawled under the hedge into our terrier-tory. ‘I don’t like him.’ He sat down to scratch his ribs, then sniffed about to see if
Preacher and I had left any breakfast in our bowls. Of paws, we hadn’t.
Foxie grumbled about
that. Then he left our yard (never mind how) and trotted off to visit Spotty
Sprat.
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