Being unemployed, with seemingly no prospects, is pretty rubbish. Putting it lightly.

But to his credit, Patrick was handling the situation rather well. But not overly well.

He’d drag himself out of bed every morning around 10 or 11.00am, scan his rejection emails, scrape a slither of butter from the packet and slather it onto a recently de-moulded slice of bread (now toasted), then begin shoving the “breakfast” down his throat whilst flicking on the telly, contemplating applying for new jobs.

As the daytime television programmes hit that point where they truly began to rot his brain, he’d go upstairs, wash the important parts, slip on some trousers and begin the job search process for real.

‘Ooh that looks good,’ he’d think then bookmark the job page with the intention of applying for it later. ‘I like the sound of that,’ he’d think as he sent off a stock email and covering letter. ‘That looks awful,’ he’d think as he called the bored receptionist at Whoever Ltd to send him the job description. And the process would continue until it was socially acceptable to have a pot Noodle and a beer.

This routine would occur day in and day out. Until Sunday.

Oh yes, Sundays were his day of rest. Sundays were when he could really do what he wanted. Sundays were when Patrick was not tied down to the pressures of job hunting.

A typical Sunday would involve dragging himself out of bed around 10 or 11.00am, checking his emails, Facebook and Twitter, scraping a slither of butter from the packet and slathering it onto a recently de-moulded slice of bread (now toasted), then shoving the “breakfast” down his throat while flicking on the telly.

As Sunday television hit that point where it truly began to rot his brain, he’d go upstairs, wash the important parts, slip on some trousers and play Football Manager on the PC until it was socially acceptable to have a Pot Noodle and a beer.

This routine would occur every Sunday. Until, of course, one particular Sunday not too long ago.

On this particular Sunday, Patrick dragged himself out of bed around 10 or 11.00am then went to check his emails. The first to catch his eye had the subject line of “You’re a winner!” It was from the National Lottery.

Patrick rolled his eyes. He’d often had these as over the last two years he had been playing the National Lottery online and they tend to send you that annoyingly teasing email if all you’ve won is a pound. He clicked ‘open’ just incase.

“Congratulations Patrick, you are the winner of 5 million pounds!!”

He rubbed his eyes. ‘This can’t be true’. He read it again.

“Congratulations Patrick, you are the winner of 5 million pugs!!”

Wait. What?

He rubbed his eyes for a second time.

“Congratulations Patrick, you are the winner of 5 million pugs!!”

‘Pugs? As in, the dog?’ He went to read on but the door bell rang. He checked to see he was wearing trousers – he was – and he walked to the front door.

Before he’d opened it he could hear the strangest sound coming from outside. A loud, wheezing, moaning, squealing noise. He opened the door to find a happy 30-something delivery driver with “The National Lottery” branded across his cap.

“Patrick?!” he yelped.

“Yes?” Patrick replied.

“CONGRATULATIONS!! You are the winner of last night’s lottery draw! JERRY! Open the doors!”

With that, “Jerry” open the doors of the 16-wheeler truck that Patrick somehow failed to notice. A deep, thunderous, confusing sound boomed from inside the truck.

As Patrick blinked, five million pug dogs came sprinting towards him. Before he even had time to process the nonsense they charged into his house, knocking him to the ground.

They climbed in the cupboards, the toilets, his shoes and any space going. They ate his food, drank his water and pooed on his floor. His clothes were trashed, his crockery was smashed and there wasn’t a clean thing to be seen.

‘What the hell, don’t lottery winners get cash?’ he thought. ‘What on Earth am I going to do?’

The next six days were a whirlwind.

Monday morning his doorbell took a beating unlike ever before. Journalists from all around the World flocked to interview him. Magazines like Heat and Hello! threw envelopes of cash into his hands in exchange for a photo and a soundbite. £10,000. £25,000. £50,000. The money seemed endless. His face was all over the red tops. “The Man With 5 Million Mutts!”. “Pugtrick”. You name it, he was called it.

Tuesday morning he was whisked off to every radio station to speak to the country about his bizarre winnings. The afternoon saw him interviewed on Loose Women, DayBreak and News Night. Every demographic was aware of Patrick and his dogs.

Wednesday he dined and drank with the rich and famous. They hung on his every word. He ate steak and drank champagne and didn’t pay a penny. His phone was filled with phone number after phone number of all the women he’d seen that evening, none of whom would have even looked at him a week ago.

Thursday saw the RSPCA pay a visit to give him the keys to a 12 bedroom manor house on the outskirts of London. “It’s a wonderful old place with 8 acres,” a spokesperson said. “Please have it. It was donated to us by a wealthy deceased sponsor of ours. We don’t want money, we just can’t stand imagining these five million cute pugs all squished up in a one bedroom flat, they need space. Please take care of them.”

Patrick had moved in by Friday evening and as he stepped inside the house, following a trail of doggy carnage, he found a seven-figure-sum advertising contract on his door step that would see him be the new face of Pedigree Chum. He was made for life! He couldn’t believe what these little things were doing for him. He called some of his new friends and partied until Saturday morning. As the celebs and models began leaving, without helping tidy up or even thanking their host, Patrick passed out through exhaustion.

He slept for a full 24 hours.

Eventually Patrick woke up and dragged himself out of bed around 10 or 11.00 am on Sunday morning to the sound of five million pugs crying. ‘Oh bugger,’ thought Patrick. ‘I’ve neglected these poor things.’

Patrick walked down the four flights of stairs in his manor house to his garages. He remembered that someone working for Pedigree Chum mentioned something about “life time supply” of something. He swung open the doors to find tonnes, and I mean tonnes, of meat in jelly.

He opened over 1,000 tins of dog food, all weighing 700 pounds each, and blew a whistle he found in a box. Within seconds, 20 million little paws came pounding into the garage. Patrick giggled as he watched his pugs demolish the food with such ease.

The pugs began to bounce up and down.

“Come on guys!” Patrick yelled. He ran towards the eight acres of land he had. The pugs followed. The jumped and wrestled and climbed on each other. Patrick joined in. They tickled and nibbled and crawled all each other. Tennis balls were thrown. Rivers were swam in. Trees were climbed. Good times were had.

The sun had gone down. Where had the time gone? Patrick led the gang into the lounge, lit a fire and sat on the floor.

He curled up, surrounded by his beloved pugs, and looked at them in a way he’d never looked at anything else before. “Thank you, pugs, you’ve really brightened up my life,” he smiled, stroking a few heads. “I have money, a house, a job and loads of new friends. But it’s not the material joy that you’ve brought to me that I value. No. You’ve given me the internal pleasures I’ve lacked for so long: contentment, peace, love. A sense of purpose. You’re everything I could have asked for and more.”

The pugs looked up at Patrick. He could’ve sworn they all smiled.

“All that’s left then, is to name you all…”

Patrick took a deep breath and began pointing as he reeled off: “John, Joan, Steve, Stevie, Michelle, Michael, Ben, Benny, Mark, Marcel, Natalie, Natasha, Neville, Carey, Jo, Joanna, Jasmine, Clive, Kevin, Karl, Carl, Kent, Clarke, Matt, Martin, Marvin, Clyde, Bliss, Beyonce, Bernard, Burt, Christian, Carly, Jamie, James, Terry, Terri, Terrance, Juliet, Ed, Eddie, Edward, Edmund, Ella, Nella, Bella, Daniel, Dan, Stan, Fran, Brian, Lee, Leigh, Leonard, Mitchell, Jennie, Lenny, Kenny, Chris, Christ, Christoph, Christopher, Damon, Damien, Dawn, Beth, Bethan, Bethany, Rose, Amy, Lesley, Gen, Genevieve, Helen, Rachel, Ross, Phoebe, Monica, Günter, Juan, Celine, David, Sam, Sammy, Samuel, Julianne, Ashley, Janet, Aaron, Lewis, Emma, Pete, Paul, Parker…”

…Patrick slowly drifted off. The pugs crowded round him, like a moving, wheezing, blanket. They looked at each other, nodded, and slowly drifted off to sleep themselves.

© Carl Burkitt 2012

The wall Jimmy was walking on was big, but not that big. It can’t have been more than six feet tall.

“Jimmy,” his mum moaned. “Please get down from there. Climbing walls that big isn’t for 11 year old boys.”

“Peter Wickleswith climbs walls.” he replied.

“Well you’re not Peter Wickleswith. If you’re not careful you could have an accident and crack something.”

“Mum, it’s so wide. I’ll be fine.”

His mum looked at the wall. It’s thick, cobbled bricks were crammed together creating a width of at least seven or eight feet. “Fine, just please pop your glasses on.”

Jimmy was not far from being registered blind. Two years tops, the doctors told his mum. They gave him glasses to wear but he hated the things. They were too tight for his head and the boys at school all laughed when he wore them. He could just about make out basic objects without them, so he would always just keep them in their case.

Jimmy reached inside both trouser pockets, nothing. He tried his coat.

“I think they’re in my bag.”

Jimmy’s mum tutted. “Wait exactly where you are, I’ll go to the car and grab them for you.”

As she scuttled off to where they’d parked up for their afternoon picnic, Jimmy waited for his mum to turn the corner, go past the shrubs and out of sight before he continued walking on the wall.

Jimmy never understood why his mum didn’t like him walking on walls. Especially walls as wide as this. What could go wrong? It’s not like he’d had an accident before.

He loved walking on walls. He felt his lack of sight helped him not be afraid of however high up his was and he could really escape from the world.

As he slowly stepped forward, feeling every stoney crunch under his feet, he closed his eyes and smiled as the slight breeze washed over his soft skin. With a deep breath he filled his nostrils with the smell of freshly cut grass from the fields surrounding him and the mornings rain droplets that nestled on the tops of the trees. The distant sound of birdsong filled his sensitive ear drums, prompting a whistle to leave his lips. Jimmy felt as though he was flying. He felt closer to the skies. To the clouds. To his Dad.

He flapped his arms like wings and stretched as high up on his tiptoes as he could go. As he cawed like the crow he was becoming, his stride was broken by the thud of stubbing his foot against a what he thought was a loose rock.

The rock rapidly flew off to the right, crashing to the ground. Jimmy’s balance was shot. He began falling.

The serene feeling of hovering above the world was quickly replaced the the feeling of chaos. Everything was moving quickly. Grey shapes span and swirled in front of him. His hands flailed to grab on to something, anything. His senses were taking a battering too. His mind playing tricks on him. His head thumped to a thunderous, clattering sound, like a million hooves smashing into the ground. His stomach spun as a rotten eggy stench engulfed his over active nose. What sounded like ambulance sirens began ringing and screeching and bellowing around his head.

The madness was suddenly broken by the jolt of his body landing into the arms of his mother. Tears streamed down his face.

Jimmy looked all around him. His mind hadn’t been playing tricks. The chaos was real. The hooves, the egg, the sirens. His heart skipped a beat as he looked at the mess on the floor.

“What’s happened?!” screamed Jimmy’s mum.

A paramedic replied: “It looks like this man has had a great fall.”

© Carl Burkitt 2012

Tracey had three badgers living in her hair. I’d love to go into why and how Tracey had three badgers living in her hair, but I can’t. It’s far too complicated.

All I’ll say is it involved an ex boyfriend and an evening she’d rather forget.

Ever since that evening, the badgers had been ruining her life. The badgers were evil. They’d brought Tracey nothing but pain.

They’d poke and scratch and push and shove Tracey’s head all over the place and ruin any kind of social situation.

They lost her friends and repelled potential boyfriends. Girls would turn their noses up at Tracey’s hair and boys would just freak out. That boy Will at work would offer a polite smile when he walked past, though, but then he did that with everyone. He was a nice lad. But heaven forbid she ever approach him. No way. She knew what happened when she went up to boys with those badgers in her hair.

She had to get used to being alone. The badgers were part of her life and she had to just put up with it.

There was one day, however, that the badgers took things too far. It was the Friday morning after a work’s do and the badgers were in an awfully evil and evilly awful mood.

They woke Tracey up at 5.00am, scraping their feet left and right, drooling out of their noses. Their rustling and snarling eventually forced her out of bed. On the way down the stairs she glanced in the mirror and was surprised at how fresh she looked. She’d go as far as to say she looked attractive. Badger 1 shoved a claw into her ear, putting her off balance and sending her tumbling down the steps. Badgers 2 and 3 didn’t giggle, they cackled.

‘Frosties,’ thought Tracey. ‘Frosties make everything better.’

She managed to make her way to the fridge, get the milk, get the Frosties, pour both into the bowl and make it to the sofa with no interruptions. Just as her bottom nestled sweetly into the soft seat, Badger 2 snatched her spoon to cause a big enough distraction to let Badger 3 poop in her bowl. Tracey tutted, grabbed a cereal bar and headed off to work.

‘I’ll grab the bus,’ thought Tracey. ‘They always behave on the bus.’

As she walked towards her bus stop Tracey pulled her hood over her head. She told the badgers it was to protect them from the rain, but it was clearly to hide them from the public. With her hood still up she paid the driver and the pests stayed quiet. She spotted Will sat at the back of the bus. While his warm smile began to steal his face Badger 3 pulled on Tracey’s fringe, causing her to drop her bag, whilst Badgers 1 and 2 bit her earlobes. Tracey grabbed her things and jumped in the first seat possible.

The unbearable journey finally came to an end 15 minutes later and the short walk to work went unscathed. ‘Coffee,’ thought Tracey. ‘Just grab a coffee and sit down.’

The machine spat out a dark, milkless coffee and she made her way to her work station. Tracey closed her eyes anticipating the gorgeous, first sip of the liquid energy. As the cup tickled her lip Badgers 1, 2 and 3 squeezed her neck, spilling the coffee all over the desk.

Tracey threw her head into her hands to catch the tears that streamed from her face. ‘How can I possibly go on like this?’ she thought. ‘How will I ever be happy again?’ She’d had dark days before, but this was it. She saw nothing but misery on the horizon.

“Tracey?” a voice asked out of nowhere.

It was Will.

Tracey scrabbled to grab her hood to hide her hair. The badgers began stirring.

“Your name’s Tracey, right?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled. She could feel the badgers kicking and scratching one another.

Badger 1 spat on her shoulder, Badger 2 started screaming and Badger 3 chewed on her hood.

“Can I help you?” she whimpered.

Will smiled. “Do you fancy a coffee?”

The badgers froze. Tracey stared.

“Sorry?”

“I wondered if you fancied having a coffee with me?”

“Er… yeah?”

The badgers started wriggling in an unfamiliar way. They began spinning and darting around the crown of Tracey’s head. She’d never felt this feeling before. Will fixed his eyes on hers. The badgers sped up. Her heart raced. Was this it? Badger 1 was the first to slide down her spine, into her trousers, out of the leg and past her shoe. Badgers 2 and 3 soon followed it towards the fire exit.

Tracey felt funny.

“You ready?”

The badgers looked back at Tracey. She nodded and turned to Will. “Yes, I’m ready.”

© Carl Burkitt 2012

Charlie was pleased with himself. On his way back from a day of chasing mice and scaring bees, he’d managed to book a table for two at George’s favourite restaurant for their five year anniversary. A task that’s quite tough when you’re a cat.

Five years? He couldn’t believe it. Not many people imagined Charlie and George would stay together for very long, but they managed it. And despite the mood swings and irrational anger on an hourly basis, Charlie really couldn’t think of a wolf he’d rather spend his life with.

In the past George had refused to go to restaurants with Charlie. “Why bother flaunting ourselves in front of strangers and pay over the odds for under-cooked food when we could just order a pizza and watch a film?” George would often ask.

But no, not tonight. Charlie was sure George would be too intoxicated by love and goodwill to care about that kind of silly nonsense. Tonight was their five year anniversary, what better way to spend it than in the company of your loved one at your favourite restaurant.

Looking forward to an evening of seafood and reminiscing about their relationship, Charlie picked a rose from a neighbours garden, popped it in his mouth and skipped the rest of the way home.

“Konckity knock knock,” Charlie giggled while opening the front door. “I’m home!”

George, curled up in the corner of the sofa watching La Belle Noiseuse, just about acknowledged Charlie with a faint nod.

Charlie danced up slowly to George humming the tune of Can You Feel the Love Tonight? He slowly circled around the sofa, stopping every time he was behind it to gently run the back of a claw down George’s long greying spine to the base of his tail.

“Stop it,” George wriggled. “I’m trying to watch this.”

“Oh come on, Georgey, play with me.”

George stared at the TV.

“Fine, I’ll just have to join you.” Charlie popped the rose on the fireplace, climbed over the back of the sofa and found a perfect spot behind George’s front legs to nestle up to. “I’ve got a surprise for you, Georgey.”

“Hmm?”

“How would you fancy a meal tonight at… CHIEN MOELLEUX?!”

“I’d rather not.”

“What?! But you love it there!”

“I’d rather not-”

“You’ve forgotten haven’t you?!”

“I’d-”

“You know what George? To hell with you! I try so chuffing hard to keep you happy and I get nothing in return. I’ve been working all day at a job I hate to save up the cash to be able to spoil you with a gorgeous meal at your favourite restaurant. I don’t even like the place to be honest, but I want to go because YOU like it. But no, you’d rather not. YOU’D rather not. Grumpy George would rather stay at home. Let me guess. ‘Shall we order a pizza?’ No. Tonight is our fifth anniversary and I want to go and celebrate. I’ll tell you what though, there’s not much to celebrate, is there? Look at us? We barely talk, we barely do anything. My mum was right. ‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks’, that’s what she always says about you. ‘Once a boring wolf, always a boring wolf’. You know my parents never thought we’d last, right? ‘Cat and wolves don’t mix’. That’s what mum said. But I fought and fought and fought to tell her how wonderful I thought you were. Maybe she was right. The fact you were different was what always attracted me to you. You never wanted to do what normal people do. You were unique, unlike all of the cats I’d ever been with. But sometimes, George. Normality is good. Sometimes I’d like to watch an awful Disney film, be spoilt with flowers, drink cheap wine, eat rubbish sweets and get all gushy. Why do you have to be so awkward ALL OF THE TIME?!”

Charlie ran into the kitchen in floods of tears. The lights were off but the room still shone. He wiped his eyes. “Oh George” he whispered.

Candles, big and small, white and pink, filled the kitchen work tops. A rose petal path spiralled from the kitchen door, past the oven, past the sink, and circled around the dark, oak dining table. A bowl of salmon, tuna and prawn pasta, in a cheese sauce sat between a glass of Australian white wine and a box of Jelly Babies, Charlie’s favourites. The Lion King soundtrack played in the background.

Charlie turned as he felt a familiar, warm paw on his shoulder.

George smiled a comforting smile. “I love you, Charlie.”

© Carl Burkitt 2012