Farah’s litter is devastatingly catastrophically wrong.

   ‘NOOOOO!’ Amanda shrieks, histrionically, Wagnerianly, all dreams of future Crufts champions brutally, unjustly dashed. The newborns, squatly, puggishly, patently not Afghan hounds, speak of a backstreet liaison, a pedigree bridegroom rejected for an uninhibitedly unsanctioned mating with some mangily mongrelly chancer. HOWWWW?

   Wretchedly, remorsefully, Amanda recalls a bibulously bonkers girlie-night, Proseccoishly-merry visitors, a gate left unwittingly, uncaringly open: and, later, an uncharacteristically subdued Farah spread smugly, muddily across her bed…
The puppies suckle, slurpily, burpily, hiccupingly Farah nuzzles them tenderly. Amanda, meeting her gaze, sighs defeatedly, shakes her head, and smiles. Fondly.