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Klepter's Backyard Imbroglio
(owing a debt to the word play of Lewis Carroll)
by Mark Scheel

"Tell me a story, Uncle John," beseeched little Mary Ann, plopping herself down on the hassock beside Uncle John's recliner.

"Alright, Sweet Pea. What would you like to hear?" Uncle John replied, putting aside the newspaper.

"Well...something about dogs, I think. With funny words, like Jabberwocky."

"That shouldn't be too hard," Uncle John laughed. "I bet I know what will make a good one." And he began.

* * *

Klepter was a greylic Coton de Tulear with a rapful bark and a wiggering tail. He'd been elected the governor of the Piffledale backyard by all the flurfles and fleavers many moons ago and had served magninfully in that capacity ever since. As he'd prancify up and down the picket fence with his combed fur coat glenteening brightly, he seemed the very picture of bofond governoresqueship. And all the flurfles and fleavers could rest content that all was well in flurdom.

One particularly dry and derained summer, however, a new family moved in next door to the Piffledales with a little white poodle named Distractique. Right away she began to flauntify her pink ribbons and white curls along that same picket fence where Klepter would often prancify. And sad to say, it wasn't long before she had vigerated Klepter completely in her thrall. So decombommeled did he become that he failed to adiffully patrol the birdbath and the foreign bluegins splashed away what little water there was. Then the nastiful raggitts sneaked in the back mesh and helped themselves to the lettuce. The last straw came when the neighboring querpills began stealing nuts from the flurdom store.

All the flurfles and fleavers assembled themselves and called for a confabtation. The wise old owl who lived in the oople shed declared that: "It is written in the forest tutionistal that those who 'elect' may also 'delect.'" "Let’s delect!" shouted the assemblanance. "But we must also relect," clarifacted the owl, "and who will be a candidate?"

"I will," stipified the toontate. "No raggitts or querpills will get past me!"

"I will," steerified the blungoot. "I'll go over and bring our nuts back!"

"I will," edeified the gongoster. "I can do a rain dance!"

And before you could whinkle an eyelash, over a hundred candidates had covoteered!

Now it wasn’t long before news of the confabtation harkenated Klepter's ear. And he sought out a confictition of events from the wise old owl. When he’d been apprised of the details of the transmantation, Klepter clarnicated: "Now listen, one and all. I never vigerated with that poodle. That Miss Distractique." But it was to no avail as the flurfles and fleavers vorsanked to eminue the delect.

And so for the remainder of the summer the backyard was subjected to the most quantifferal of political campaigns. Gongosters dancing. Blungoots nutting. What an effenteral sight!

Then, on the eve of the delect and relect, two conjugatal events engineered by Klepter would alter the course of everything. First, under cover of darkness, Klepter slipped between two loose pickets into the yard next door and, with the conivifying of a beagle in the next block who owed him a favor, chewed up everything in sight--the garden hose, the rake handle, even the lonkendrecker, everything--leaving behind one pink ribbon. The next day the insoucific Distractique was promptly shipped off to obedience school and became a matter passtaine. And second, bribing a cousin of the wise old owl with doggie burgers, Klepter arranged for him to whifflewing in bearing news of a legal technicality in the tutionistal that forbade delections during a drought! And, as a great dane once quoped to a bob-tailed cocker, that was the end of that.

Well, to say the least, Klepter felt himself to be "a pup saved by the swingindill." And then, to top things off, a hard rain fell that night, which seemed to, as it were, wash away all the flurfles' and fleavers' hybendations. And all was peace once more in flurdom.

Prancifying the next morning along the picket fence, Klepter couldn't help pontifying to himself: "I hope they’ve learned their lesson. Politics is a thing best left to the dogs." And so it is.

Winner of The Humor and Life, in Particular Web site August/September 2005 Short Humor Contest