The Short Rant: Mr. Spock is a menace

When he first arrived, I had no problem with him being here. If anything, it was a novelty. I’d go so far as to call it sweet. He would arrive on our doorstep, then stroll into our flat and make himself comfortable on a sofa or in a bed. Never asking permission. 

Fair enough, it was quite funny. My flatmates and I would keep him entertained with snacks and polite conversation; we were excellent hosts. But that wasn’t enough.

One quiet evening, as the eaves of Marchmont tinged with gold, I came downstairs seeking sustenance. A cheese toastie, perhaps. But as I entered the kitchen, my heart sank.

There was our guest, on all fours on the kitchen counter, his furry little bastard jaws hinged as wide as they would stretch. His victim, an entire container of butter. After the hospitality we had shown that creature. The level of entitlement makes me sick – my angel of a dog would never stoop this low.

I was never much of a cat person before, I am certainly not now. Mr Spock will never again be welcome in our domain. And he owes us a tub of Lurpak.

Image courtesy of Jacklyn Hyder