Fleming’s dogs are trying to eat me. I’m sure of it.
They’ve trapped me here in the kitchen while my wife talks to him in the hall. “Yes,” I can hear her say, “of course we can. It’s no problem.”
Then him. “Great. I’ll be back before noon tomorrow. Thanks.”
Meanwhile I’m stuck in here, cornered by these monsters. I can see their teeth. Terrible, drooling teeth, bared in my direction.
I think Fleming and my wife are having an affair. I found a sock in the bedroom. What do you know about it, Pongo and Perdy? What have you heard?