The celebrated terrier dog “Major” performing his wonderful feat of killing 100 rats.
Having completed the task Major stood up upon his hind legs, forepaws raised to the air, and with pieces of rat still visibly gleaming on some of his teeth he exclaimed with no small measure of perversion, “ONE. HUNDRED. RAAAAAAATTTSSSSS!”
Many of the gentlemen murmured to each other in hushed tones, “Lord, what have we done…” A handful smiled, exchanged large bills over bets, jovially looked forward to the inevitable 200 rat challenge. But one, Sir Attenbery, turned away from the crowd and found a corner in which to hide his tears, verging on hysterics. In his pocket one of the back-up rats squirmed (Rule 17, Section 5 of the Small Animal Destroyers Club insists that extra “prey” be on hand and provided by the host). He had liberated it from the cages in the store-room earlier, while everyone else was distracted by the event. He opened his pocket slightly and dropped in a crumb, petting the small head of the rat with his fingertip, “It’s ok, little one, we’re out of here soon”
Major put on his silken robe and walked back to his dressing room, nose to the air in defiance of all things Terrier. Sir Attenbery’s tears made way for seething. “The bastard will pay. They will all pay.” Visions of rat kings danced in his head.