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Wellington Wallaby Withers was most disgruntled.
Curled in his basket by the hearth, he groaned, "Fire's out, Master Horace. Can't bake my back."
Master Horace was asleep in his chair. Sn-ooo-re.
The maddening smell of freshly made meatloaf hung about the house. "But my bowl," Wellington said, "is empty." And, oh, how his nose smarted! Honey, that sour sneak of a cat, had swatted him again.
