From The Tree

Business Lunch

The air was sweet with the scent of wildflowers, something the bees appreciated greatly. Mister and Miss Sparrow were having a siesta with their chicks and the rustling leaves snored along with them. Their chicks were nearly old enough to leave the nest and start their own adventures, times like these were few, and precious. Miss Sparrow watches over all of them lovingly.

But like all good things... a scritching scratching sound pattered underneath them on the fence. Mister Sparrow, Mortimer, opened an eye and looked over the edge of the nest, four squirrels and one chipmunk, this must be the troupe Gladys keeps telling him about. The noisy ones. Gladys nuzzled him excitedly. Happy to see It was those gits again! Back for another tussle with that confounded hound. Should be entertaining to see what they've come up with this time! Well, so long as none of them get hurt and they keep it down.

The group lined up along the fence as normal, but this time they all had a strange glint to them. It was hard to see, but it looked to Mortimer like they were all carrying some sort of clear sacks among other supplies, string and whatnot. Were those cut up sausage pieces? How curious. He cocked his head at Gladys inquisitively, who looked just as perplexed back at him. This was new.

Francis was right, a new can of Watkins had appeared on that same rickety folding table. A much larger one this time no less. He had watched the portly, bald, elderly man put it out there himself three days ago. He could not discern the flavour from here, but the Watkins logo was clear as day to him. A loose pile of unshelled nuts rendered in pastel colours contained within a yellow diamond. Below in artistic calligraphy was scrawled 'Watkins' in deep brown ink. Designed originally by Tamara Star in 1991, it replaced the old logo which was merely a cartoonish peanut shell inside a yellow circle.

With that he'd put out the call to his compatriots, they gathered the unsold hot dogs the day before, Stored them in the house's old root cellar after having sliced them into portions as per Harold's instruction. Bringing them here in several bags, one for each of them. Their target was snoring on the lawn, basking in the midday sun. After his fill of peanuts the other week, he did indeed feel a bit ill. Truth be told, they weren't much to his liking.

They all looked at Harold, who nodded back at them. Francis took a deep breath and looked at Chuck. His friend shrugged, put two fingers to his lips, and whistled loudly. It was time to see if the mad squirrel truly knew what he spoke. It took a moment, but Sheffield roused at the sound, smacking his lips, confused. Then he noticed them, and when he did, he barrelled towards the fence. Jowls flapping barking and snarling at the quintet out of his reach. The family of sparrows winced collectively at the sound. But were nonetheless intrigued. What were they doing?

Chuck took one meat disc from his bag, thicker than his arm, it was heavy and unwieldy. Looking at Francis questioningly, who looked at Harold much the same. Harold nodded curtly, eyes casual, stroking his chin fur. Francis turned back to Chuck with a shrug, to which he sighed and, well, chucked the piece towards the barking mongrel. The group watched as it lodged deep in his throat. Barks changed to hacks, coughs and pained wheezes, Chuck looked at Francis with concern, this wasn't supposed to happen, was it?

Flicking his tail. Nose a-twitch with mild panic, Francis looked at him and the others as the dog rolled on the grass, coughing madly. Getting back to his feet, he planted them, tensed, and focused all his breath into one loud hack. Sending the impeding chunk of meat bouncing into the lawn. Sheffield sneezed and shook his head, then lapped up the slimy sausage chunk into his gullet, to everyone's disgust. He looked up at them, confused.

He opened his mouth to bark again, but Chuck held up another piece. Sheffield closed his mouth, grumbling and licking his lips uncertainly, shifting in place. Chuck flicked his wrist downwards. The dog's ears perked, head tilting to the left, bemused. Chuck flicked again, harder. Sheffield, disgruntled, but also fond of hot dogs, sat with a thump. Chuck tossed him the piece of sausage, made with 100% absolutely totally real meat as determined by the results of Henry Mulden v Never Better Hot Dogs LLC 2003. He was mesmerized as the dog's jaws snapped it cleanly out of the air, swallowing it instantly, it was a wonder he didn't choke all over again. But it was working? He looked at Harold sheepishly, convinced of his claims now.