Woman Hits Breeder With Chihuahua
A woman, angry that her new puppy had died, pushed her way into a dog breeder’s home and repeatedly hit her on the head with the dead Chihuahua, St Louis police authories report. The 33-year-old woman said she had taken the puppy to a veterinarian, who advised her it was only 4 weeks old and should be returned to its mother. But before she could return the puppy, it died.

“Ah there you are, Jeeves,” I said as the great man shimmered into the room. “Just in time, too. I have need of your grey matter.”

“Indeed, sir?”

A mask of horror shivered fleetingly across his normally impassive features.

“Aha!” I exclaimed. “You have noticed!”

“Indeed, sir.”

I fixed him with an intense Wooster stare, one that would have pierced the hide of many a lesser man. “Do I detect a scintilla of disapproval in your tone, Jeeves?”

“If I may venture an opinion, sir, I have never felt your eagerness to embrace the moustache a predeliction to be encouraged.”

“The deuce you say, Jeeves! You do not think it manly? You suggest, perhaps, I am unfashionable?”

He coughed discreetly, like a good-mannered cat ridding itself of a furball during a lull in conversation at a Good-Mannered Cat soiree. “Since you ask, sir, I must vouchsafe that I have never felt the growth sufficiently luxuriant to pass muster in the company of some of your more hirsute acquaintances.”

“You cut me to the quick, Jeeves! Why, only this lunchtime at The Drones I was complimented by none other than Stodgy Marchbanks, who, as you are doubtless aware, comes from a long line of mustuchioed, swashbuckling types.”

“The Marchbanks are noted for their charitable inclinations, sir. A most admirable trait. Shall I prepare the razor, sir?”

“No you bally well shall not prepare the razor, Jeeves! My moustache is here to stay until I say otherwise, and I suggest you get used to the idea!”

His delicate sigh would have been inaudible to a less discriminating ear. “Very good, sir. As you wish. Was it on the matter of your fledgling growth that you wished my assistance?”

“Eh, what? No, no, Jeeves. Before you came in I was musing upon Fate.”

“How very philosophical of you, sir.”

“Well, Jeeves, I’m not all froth and frivolity. One likes to engage the cogs once in a while. Ponder the deeper mysteries and so forth. “Look,” people say, “here is Bertram: see how deeply his brow is furrowed! Let us not disturb him with idle chit chat!” ”

” ‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp – or what’s a heaven for?’ ”

“Exactly, Jeeves. I expect one of your clever poet fellows said that.”

“The poet Browning, sir.”

“I knew it! Like me, a Big Thinker, Jeeves. Lots to say.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Anyway, Jeeves. I was, as I say, rapt in contemplation and I was trying to think of that thingummy that hangs over us.”

“Thingummy, sir?”

“You know, that thingummy. Just when you think you are safe and out of the general reach of the monstrous regiment of aunts, Life knocks on the door and turns out to be the postman with a surprise delivery from Switzerland.”

His mighty brow furrowed ever so slightly. “Switzerland, sir?”

“Well, not expressly Switzerland, Jeeves. It could be any foreign clime. Rangoon. Montevideo. Nantucket. I was attempting to be, what’s that thing?”

“Metaphorical, sir.”

“That’s the fellow! So, there you are, standing in the hallway with a packet from Zurich and you notice that it is ticking…”

“The Swiss are often mistakenly associated with making of cuckoo clocks, sir; however, the mechanism originated in the Black Forest area of Southern Germany…”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a bomb, Jeeves. I was still being metaphorical.”

“I see, sir.”

“Where was I? Oh yes, so there you are, holding a bomb and suddenly you have that thingummy dangling above you, out of the blue.”

“I believe you are referring to the Sword of Damocles, sir.”

“You’re a marvel, Jeeves! That would have haunted me all evening. The Sword of Damocles it is!”

“The tyrant Dionysius hung the sword from a horse hair above the head of the would-be ingratiator Damocles, in order to illustrate that the life of a monarch was not all wine and roses.”

“Another metaphor, eh, Jeeves?”

“Undeniably, sir.”

“The work of a poet, no doubt?”

“The philosopher Cicero, sir, in his Tusculan Disputations. The sword represented the ever-present peril accompanying those who hold sway by dint of tyranny.”

“Tyrants should jolly well count themselves lucky, Jeeves, that they are not accompanied by the ever-present peril of aunts.”

“I daresay they would find that a most unfortunate happenstance, sir. Might I enquire what it was that initiated this train of thought?”

“It was the most extraordinary thing, Jeeves. I had, as you recall, lunched at the Drones. Everything was well with the world, despite a lengthy and tedious update on the continuing trials of Gus Fink-Nottle’s newt colony. When I arrived back here, you were not to be found…”

“I was attending the wedding of my niece, sir.”

“Ah yes, I remember now. Anyway, I fixed myself a snifter and was about to essay a few bars of some heart-warming ditty on the old ivories, when I was suddenly aware of a commotion outside. You know our new neighbour, Jeeves?”

“I have not met the lady, sir, but I understand that she is a woman of independent means. I have not, as yet, ascertained the source of her wealth.”

“It turns out, Jeeves, that she is a dog-breeder. I opened my door to discover her being beaten about the head by another lady with a Chihuahua.”

“Her assailant was accompanied by a small dog, sir?”

“No, Jeeves. Her assailant was assailing her with the small dog. It was the most extraordinary thing.”

“Not a common scenario, certainly, sir.”

“I should say not, Jeeves. The day it becomes commonplace for one to be beaten around the bonce with a small lapdog is the day that I shall quit this country for more civilised parts. If an Englishman cannot open his door without being set upon by hoodlums armed to the teeth with assorted wildlife it’s a pretty sorry pass, Jeeves.”

“I understand your position in the matter, sir. It would be a most regrettable trend.”

“One put up with women throwing themselves under horses, Jeeves. The Woosters have never stood four-square in the face of progress. But there are limits. When women take to bandying about animals, willy-nilly, one must stand by one’s principles and resist the insidious drift of the modern moral compass.”

“Quite so, sir.”

“Anyway, after the unseemly tableau had been curtailed, following the intervention of Sir Robert Peel’s finest, my thoughts naturally turned to Fate. How you can be merrily breeding dogs in your parlour one minute, then pounded around the pate by a pooch-wielding popsy the next. It was but a small step from there to contemplation of the numerous occasions yours truly has been beaten about the head by various aunts, armed with the puppies of their devious machinations.”

“A most colourful metaphor, sir.”

“Thank you, Jeeves. Well…you have, as always, been of admirable assistance in my hour of need. I should have pondered into the wee small hours concerning the Sword of Wosshisname.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“This is not the first time you have leapt to my assistance. You have my heartfelt gratitude. How can I ever repay you?”

I saw the look in his eye, and sighed.

“Very well, but you exact a high price.”

Jeeves inclined his head in a small bow.

“Most gratifying, sir. I shall ready the razor. Thank you!”