In my apartment, there were three plants. A big leafy fellow named Sherlock, his portly, shorter, aloe-filled compatriot, Watson. And a big shaggy ugly fucker named Boris the Blade.
I also have a cat. Her name is Ella.
Today I was informed that Ella knocked Sherlock off the window sill, and he plunged to his demise.
And this is no Reichenbach Falls situation...he's really dead. Here's the photographic evidence:
Notice how Ella just lies in the foreground, smugly looking into the camera as her victim lies helpless just a few feet a way? Cruel and heartless.
This is, no doubt, her brutal revenge for that time I put a pancake on her head.
R.I.P Sherlock.
Jim out.
2 comments:
Ella is Moriarity in disguise. And you could tell from the pancake photo she was going to bide her time to savour that dish best served cold.
How do you know that Ella did it for sure? Maybe Sherlock offed himself! Maybe helpful push from Watson? Maybe your landlord needed to get out some steam?
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