Harold was a wolf.
He hated straw houses. They got in his fur. They made him sneeze.
“Calm down, calm down, no need for all that,” Fredrick said, opening the door.
“Apologies,” Harold told the old pig.
“What are you doing here Harold? I ain’t dead yet.” Fredrick said, adjusting his glasses.
Harold sighed, “I’m a vegetarian Fred, you know this.”
Fredrick frowned, “right, I’d heard that. A bit disrespectful to the dead, if you ask me, but to each’s own.”
Harold sighed. He dusted a few bits of straw off his clipboard. He turned it to Fredrick. The old pig raised an eyebrow at it. “So they’ve got wolves doing their dirty work now, how appropriate,” Fredrick muttered.
“It’s a job Fred. No reason to be uncouth,” Harold growled.
Fredrick nodded, “true, peace. Just ruffled up, that’s all. How long I got?”
“A week,” Harold said, shrugging sympathetically.
Fredrick looked around at his small little straw house. Harold gave him a moment. He felt bad for the poor old pig, but, there was no helping it. Harold waited while Fredrick picked a few straws from his door frame and held them gently.
He brushed them off one hand with the other. One fell, stuck into Harold’s leg hair. Harold sighed.
“So,” Harold said, after Fredrick signed, “end of the week?”
“Yeah, yes,” Fredrick said, closing the door.
“Yes, certainly,” he said through the crack proceeding the soft thud.
Harold stood at the closed door. He unstuck the notice from the bottom sheet of the clipboard. He plastered it to the front door.
It shouted at him. Harold stepped of the porch. He shook himself violently. Straw flung in all directions. A few stubborn bits clung hard. He let them stay.
“What’s the use,” he sighed.
He slipped the clipboard into his bag, bent to all fours, and dashed off home.
TO BE CONTINUED…