Learning the fine art of stiff legs.

The yew tree trunk blown by an ancient blast lists 45 degrees. A bough at 45 degrees to the trunk sweeps the ground forming a shady tunnel crossing the flagstone path. In the branch above the path sits Jim the graveyard cat, his tail swishing in irritation at the noisy juvenile bushy tailed rolands hurling fir cones from their position in the tree top. I jump up and join Jim on his perch.

"Alright Jim."
"Ferd."
"Noisy little blighters." And a fir cone bounced between us to the path below.”

"How's Doll?"
"Ok."
"Lil?"
"Ok."
"You?"
"Ok."

A fir cone bomb released from the squirrel gang whizzed past Jim's ear.
"That was close!"
"I'll %$#%)~# swing for them one day."

A male human sat on the grass beneath us he was decorated with a blue bangle of barbed wire on his upper arm and rings of love and hate on his knuckles. He opened his red top and exhaled a puff of grey smoke. Marines, sailors... women on front line!!... Iran laughing... !!

"See that Jim?"
"Yep that female human with her top off."
"No not that."
"All that stuff about Iran and sailors beings being held captive."
"Can't #+.%^>~ read Ferd."
"Oh!"
"Heard about it though; at the church coffee morning."
"Good stuff eh?"
"I reckon Ferd it was."
"Discretion always the better part of valour?"
"That stiff legged walk, you do that Ferd?"
"On many an occasion, got me out of some serious scrapes."
"Yep me too, stiff legs, then up the anti: a sideways swagger and standing me hair on end."
"And if that fails yell at the top of your lungs!"
"Yep works nearly all the time."

"Jim, I reckon these human beings are finally learning the fine art of stiff legs."
"Yep me old ginger hairball you're right there."

"And because the feline art of stiff legs was employed British human beings lost a rubber dingy, but in return got a few pressies and some grey suits. Not bad! Plus the sailor and marine human beings can earn a few pennies for their pension friskie fund."

"That Ferd is true. No loss of life, no country being bombed to bits and the captives are free to tell and sell their tail -sorry tale!"

"Perfect!" And a couple fir cones found their range, bopped us both right on the bonces.
"Right that is it, the final %4#+*X# straw."
And Jim shot off like a rocket.

Ferdinand: maintaining his dignity with a bump on his head.