Bon voyage, dearest kitty, who will need to adapt cat taps to a mode of marconism from their usual biscuit-making manoeuvres if wishes to share licks and waves expects returns of mews and faves. ; )

As I closed in with my calls, it was not until I noticed her sea sips were not only intermittent but, as well, in arbitrary places, that I realised she was intently out-sniffing, for her lapping licks, ocean’s coruscant reflections of sky’s celestials.

Lake’s swan craned its neck to hear—afar, down the nullah—a cute queue of ducklings as if down a rainy day’s water slide: “Quack-cheer!” “Quack-cheer!” “Quack-cheer!” ; )

Beware of catcalling student of cynology.

High in the skies, above blind eyes, a plan for clownage commences—as a face bright of alright is just now in sight for being painted, to tickles, quite white. ; )