The moors rustled with the deep pulsing of the wind. The moon gave a surreal icey-blue glaze to the heather.  The lone Knox wandered the grassy knolls, nose twitching, for new prey. Shadows of the limping, leering, lunging  Knox swept over the heather in patches of dark. The slow ’schllllffff-thunk, schllllfff-thunk’ of his gait would warn all but the most unsuspecting of creatures of his approach. The tiny paneer-mouse (recently imported on the whim of a drunken Botswanan on the firm, but misguided, belief that its fur, dried, crushed & strained into a tea, would cure his gout) however had not had its ears cleaned recently at the Hearing Association in Remuera, and therefore its hearing was not as acute as it could have been.

The Knox spied his prey, and with the four-prongs of his barely used (and therefore almost sterile) walking stick pinned the four legs of the paneer-mouse to the ground – thus ensuring a minimum of damage to its delicious non-vegetarian flesh. He threw himself on his victim & with his rather well kept teeth ripped the fur (which was in fact totally useless for anything at all) off the screaming animal & threw its tiny carcass, still writhing in agony, into the local microwave to curry for tea (with some left-over rice to provide carbs).

Replete, the Knox lay to briefly shuffle no more as slumber engulfed the weary denizen of the night – his nostrils still twitched with the thrill of the kill & his grey bristle was smeared with the paneer-mouse’s remnants, which hung in the moon-light as a terrible warning to other paneer-mice of the unpleasant fate that awaits those that choose to turn a deaf ear.