Interrupted conversations with Django

My doggone life

Every time I have this conversation in distant Bulawayo, I ignore the din of our conversation to listen to the distinctive musical chords of Django.

She sings for the foremost canine symphony orchestra, her repertoire is legendary as to be endearing, you can only want to meet her in effusive fandom for appreciating her talent. I could have met her, but I was constrained and restrained, barred and denied that great pleasure.

Every demand fell on deaf ears, for he would have made our acquaintance was envious of her. As she sang to my ears, he seized her, the dog-napper in his element put her in the van and made to getaway. He never did for I had let out the air in his tyres as he tried to put his foot down.

The seat of his pants

Well, he did put his foot down and his rickety van welded together with bits from a scrapyard, the windshield held in place with duct tape, and everything else rattled like cymbals and drums in cacophonous disintegration. And there he was strapped to his seat far in front of the van.

A crowd gathered around to help; the accident had apparently pulled off his dungarees that he was left in his underwear. Someone dared to ask, what happened, and he sheepishly answered, he had just tried to take Django away from her friends. The patriarch and the boyfriend. The crowd booed him and freed Django, for she was loved by the neighbour and definitely not a nuisance sheepdog.

Django happily jumped about and wagged her tail, we were reunited and then in one lunge, she took a bite out of his cakes. Oh, we laughed, as he ran off, his heels touching the back of his head as he sped away. What a sport you are, Django.