Archive for the ‘Birds’ Category


Bert finds a Cure.

March 3, 2015

Bert was a normal enough weasel. He was a mammal (source: Wikipedia), and he looked like that weasel from Animals of Farthing Wood. So, pretty standard. He was a nice weasel, he sent everyone at work Christmas cards, he wrote to his mum, and he didn’t skulk away when it was his round at the bar. But Bert had one major flaw: he could not hug.

It was a problem that bothered him deeply, a dark secret constantly poking away at his sanity.

It was not a physical problem, but a mental one. As a child, Bert had attempted to hug a moving car. The car of course bit him, and Bert’s poor psyche was damaged forever. Ever since, a hug had been impossible for him.

One day in Spring, Bert was feeling particularly gloomy. Sat in a tree, he looked out into a field and thought dark thoughts. If he couldn’t hug, what was the point? The whole world was out there, but at arm’s length. The best he could do was shake its hand, and it wasn’t enough. Not any more.

And so he jumped. Bert leapt from the branch that was previously his seat. Eyes closed, the wind rushed through the fur on his cheeks as the ground rushed up to meet him. And then, suddenly, he felt a soft thump beneath him.

“HOLY BUTTOCKING JESUS!” came a shrill cry, just below his head.

Bert opened his eyes, and there was a woodpecker, and he was holding onto its back. Wait… he was HUGGING its back!

“YES! Oh my goodness! I’m hugging! I’m hugging!” Bert whooped and screamed with joy as the pair flew through the air.

He was free at last.


Image from here, by a person called Martin Le-May. Sent to me by Nick, Tristan, and Mike, in that order. Thank you to everyone involved!


The Mysterious Note.

January 29, 2014

“Find me when you wake up.”

It was scrawled on a crumpled up piece of paper Alfonso had in his pocket. He frowned again as his beady-bird eyes slowly drifted over the faded characters on the page, his brain assigning the groups of abstract shapes the sounds in his head that made them into words of the English language.

Who was it from?

Alfonso pocketed the note, for perhaps the fiftieth time since he had found it this morning, and took to the skies to clear his head. His tiny wings flapped frantically to draw him into the air. His shoulders ached. Actually, his whole body ached. He felt liked he had been punched right up the arse by someone with shovels sellotaped to their fists.

“I shouldn’t have drunk that bottle of Southern Comfort last night,” he mused as he looked down at all the people below.

Which one of them had written him that note? Which of those tiny bastards was responsible for this confusion?

Alfonso’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he drifted down to alight on a stone pillar in the city below. It was a text. The text said this:


It said that because it was 1998 and everyone wrote texts like that for fear of sending two messages and it costing them an extra ten pence for the sake of one lousy letter.

The number the frugal-minded message was from was not in Alfonso’s address book, so he texted back:


The reply said this:


Alfonso wasn’t sure what a “zoo lol” was, so he headed over to the regular zoo in the hopes it would be the same thing. Luckily, it was, he could tell by the fact that someone in the camel enclosure was calling his name and waving and sometimes saying “Coo-eee!”

The increasingly confused bird shuffled over to the source of the sound; a cheerful looking camel with a red harness around her muzzle. The camel was very pleased to see Alfonso.

“Hi Alfonso! I’m very pleased to see you!” The camel said, which proves the previous sentence was not a lie.

“Who are  you?! How do you know who I am?! What is going on?!” Alfonso collapsed on the ground and sobbed like he did when Mufasa died.

“Don’t cry. Jump on my head and I’ll tell you what happened.”

Alfonso hopped onto the camel’s head, and she whispered this:

“My name is Elizabeth, and I am your wife. You got really drunk last night and called me nasty names, so I sellotaped shovels to my fists and punched you right up the arse so hard that it erased your memory, and the address book on your phone. I think it even erased your email accounts. It was the best punch I have ever done, and you bloody deserved it, you IDIOT FACE.”

Alfonso was very shocked to hear this, but of course it all made perfect sense. He was an idiot face. This had happened before.

“How can I make it up to you Elizabeth?” Alfonso whimpered.

“There is only one way to make it up to me: Build me a house made out of your tears.”

And he did just that, and never drank a whole bottle of Southern Comfort again.



Thanks to Dannie for the image, who got it from the usual place.


The hen and the hat.

July 3, 2012

Bernice was a pretty thrifty hen and tended to buy her clothes from charity shops. Arguably as a hen she was throwing her money away on clothes as she didn’t need any (being a hen), which surely would mean that she was a foolish spender rather than “thrifty”, but people that would argue this should probably find something better to do, such as write ridiculous animal stories in their lunch breaks.


Bernice had decided one day that she was going to buy a hat. She was pretty fond of hats, they tended to get her the most compliments from gentlemen hens, and she did like a nice compliment from a gentleman hen.

The charity shop greeted her with its usual smell of old books and Frank Sinatra as she moseyed in through the doorway. She said “hello” to the voluntary worker behind the counter and shuffled onward to the clothing section at the back.

There were many hats. Many hats. A lesser hen would have panicked and turned to leave at the sight of so many hats. There were splendid top hats and bowler hats, old flat caps, and even a paper crown from a Christmas cracker. Bernice began to rummage through the heaps of headgear, and after a short time she discovered a lovely looking grey/brown fur hat. Synthetic of course, as she was against fur and didn’t buy into that whole “oh it’s vintage, dear” bollocks that people say.

Paying a hefty fifty pence, she left the charity shop happily displaying her new hat on her bobbing head all the way home. And then the hat spoke.

“I’m not a hat, you know.”

Bernice very nearly needed to change her hen pants at this, but tried to control herself.

“You’re not a hat?!” she coughed.

“No,” the not-a-hat said.

“Well what are you then?!” Bernice was very confused.

“I’m Sebastian, I fell into the pile of hats while trying on a flat cap. Thank you for rescuing me,” Sebastian smiled.

“Oh, that’s okay. But why didn’t you tell me earlier? You cost me fifty pence!”

“Sorry about that. I’m only small, you see, and I was quite enjoying seeing the world from a little higher up. I’ll pay you the fifty pence back,” Sebastian pulled a 50p from his hedgehog pocket and handed it to Bernice before hopping off her head onto the floor. “It was very nice to meet you.”

With that, Sebastian left.

It was that moment that Bernice decided to stop buying hats.


I have received strict instructions on how to credit this from Graham (who submitted it on behalf of a friend, thank you):

“Alice Ryley (photographer) with Sebastian (hedgehog). Loved Owner with her True hero.”

“P.S. Sebastian please call Alice… She’s worried about you.”


Journey Across the Manly Sea.

June 7, 2012

The journey was long, but they knew that had to take it. Their wives had caught them watching Bridget Jones and eating ice cream. It was time for them to leave, to voyage out across the Manly Sea, and to find the gruff hairy man inside them.

Dilbert was a bird, or at least, he assumed he was a bird. What would the bill and wings be for otherwise? He wasn’t entirely sure what kind of bird he was, he just knew he wasn’t a sparrow, or an ostrich.

George was a turtle. He wanted to be a Ninja Turtle when he was small, but he discovered quite quickly that he wasn’t good enough at kicking people in the face in a stealthy fashion so had to settle for just being a normal turtle. It still kept him up some nights.

The pair said goodbye to their respective wives, to ice cream, and to their Bridget Jones VHS tape, and set out on their perilous journey of manliness.

The day started well. The Manly Sea was calm, and so were they, until they saw The Island (not the film). Excited, they swam over to The Island, hoping to find manly stuff, like beer, and hairy legs. There was nothing on the shore, not even a moustache, but Dilbert and George walked up the beach regardless, assuming that manliness would be found further in.

Pushing through the overgrown trees they found themselves stood in front of a small pink house.

“Doesn’t look very manly,” George grunted.

“Maybe it’s a trick. Like a test to see if we’re comfortable enough with ourselves to go into a pink house,” Dilbert offered.

“Okay, let’s try it.”

They cautiously edged through the door and turned on the lights to discover a hugely feminine living room, with an excessive amount of cushions (so many as to make it actually less comfortable because there was no space for sitting down). The fridge was full of ice cream, and the VHS collection included such classics as BOTH Bridget Jones films, and Notting Hill. Dilbert and George looked at each other, baffled. It was their dream house. So they watched the films, they ate the ice cream, and they sailed back home during the night, thoroughly happy yet confused as to how this constituted manliness.

Their wives were waiting for them on their home shore, looking quite angry, and getting angrier still as their husbands explained how it had gone.

“You went the wrong bloody way!” Alice (Dilbert’s wife) interrupted, and pointed in the opposite direction to which they had sailed, “It’s that way!”

“Shit,” Dilbert said, and headed back to the sea, “I guess we best try again, then.”

And so they set sail, in the same direction they had gone earlier, and high fived as their wives shouted for them to turn the other way.

Thanks to Dannie for the image, which is from here.


The Tale of Mr. Custard.

May 3, 2012

Mr. Custard had never noticed it until the man pointed it out at the bank, but it was true, he did have a bird on a cat on his head.

Baffled, he trudged back home in a daze. Suddenly all those years of people pointing at him made sense. The whispering and laughing. That strange weight on his head that made his neck ache. All the pieces fell into place. It was like in the film The Matrix when stuff like deja vu is explained, and you realise that the Matrix is real, and we all live in it.

He needed a sit down and a cup of tea. A proper one, out of his extra large Spider-Man mug.

Cradling the oversized mug in his shaking hands, Mr. Custard eased onto the sofa in his front room.

“What does one do in a situation such as this?” Mr. Custard whispered to himself.

“We’re just glad you know about us now,” the bird said.

“Yes, we’ve been trying to work out how to break it to you for quite a while. But since we didn’t mention it straight away we felt it would be awkward to bring it up, so we kept quiet,” the cat elaborated.

“It’s been a pretty awkward couple of decades, if I’m honest,” the bird chirped, “Sitting about on this cat, who coincidentally is sitting about on your head. I haven’t called my mum in years. My wings are all stiff.”

“It’s hardly a flipping picnic for me!” the cat was anxious to let everyone know he was not enjoying himself. “I feel like the filling in a sandwich! Like a piece of ham, or some salad. It’s rubbish. I think I need some counselling.”

The pair went back and forth for a bit, all the while Mr. Custard listened as best he could while sipping his tea. It certainly was a predicament, and none of the participants in this strange inverted food chain tower seemed happy to be part of it. He sloshed the tea between his teeth, musing as it cooled. He knew over time this practice would stain his teeth, but he couldn’t give a damn, he had a bird sat on a cat on his head.

It was then that the idea came to him.

“Guys!” he interrupted. “Have you ever thought about just… getting off?”

There was a pause. The bird cleared his throat. The cat coughed. And then the pair shuffled about a bit and stood up, toppling onto the sofa beside Mr. Custard. The two animals dusted themselves off in silence, now separated, and then looked at Mr. Custard.

“Bit embarrassing, really. I wish we had spoken to you sooner,” the cat said.

“Oh well, at least it all worked out in the end,” Mr. Custard shrugged.

The trio said their goodbyes, shook hands, and the bird and the cat went their separate ways, leaving Mr. Custard to finish his tea.

Thanks to Dan H. for the image, not sure where he got it from (will update if the information turns up).


Milo and Chief’s Big Adventure.

February 24, 2012

Milo was a brown duck, Chief was a white duck. They were not of different races, Chief had simply had a terrible accident involving emulsion when he was a painter and decorator.

The two had not always got along. When they were young ducks they had been hanging out at the local juice bar, sipping some kiwi juice and wearing shellsuits. Yes, shellsuits. The ones that are bright colours and make “shoosh” sounds when you move. It was the early 90s. Suddenly, a woman duck appeared.

Well, she didn’t appear, she came through the doorway. She wasn’t a frigging magician. Christ.

Anyway, a woman duck walked in. She was wearing one of those super cool pink shellsuits, and both Milo and Chief were crazy for her. As she stepped into the room, the two friends instantly began punching each other in efforts to impress her. It was an atrocious show of misguided romance-driven violence, for the woman duck loved NEITHER OF THEM. She was in love with a sheep dog named Keith from back home.

Upon realising this horrible truth, Milo and Chief fell into a deep depression, and took to floating aimlessly on rivers. Milo stood atop Chief’s back acting as lookout in case any pirates came and tried to scuttle them.

One day, they were floating as usual, moping away the hours of the day, when they realised they had lost track of time. They found themselves floating in the rivers of Venice! Due to the excellent romantic reputation of Venice, the pair bumped into some women and were instantly married.

It was well good.

Thanks to Robert for the image, who got it from some strange Facebook group called “I love to laugh”. Have a search for it if you feel the need.


The Spooky Hen (AoA Halloween Special).

October 31, 2011

To begin, I would like to say this:

Today’s post has an actual picture, scanned in, from real life. From real life. It has been stuck to the wall in Animal on Animal Towers for over a year waiting to be scanned.  It’s even got scratches on it from where people have touched it. Astonishing, in this day and age. I think I need a sit down. And so, here is today’s excellent Animal on Animal HALLOWEEN SPECIAL post!

“Hello.” Whispered Betsy (full name Heavenstobetsy).

Wellington’s ears pricked up as he turned to his brother, George. “Did you just say something?”

George had fallen out with Wellington the previous night over what they should watch on TV. George wanted to watch Hollyoaks as it was just becoming exciting, but Wellington was having none of it and wanted to watch Scooby Doo. After some harsh words George had decided to stop talking to his brother, and so when asked the innocent question above, he turned his back.

“No, you silly sheep person!” Betsy whispered again, closer in Wellington’s ear, “It was me!”

Wellington was unsure if it was anatomically possible for him to turn his head to see whatever it was that was speaking to him, and thought it best not to try lest he strain his sheepy neck. The whispereing, however, had convinced him that a ghost was stood on his back.

“A GHOST!” Wellington screamed, bucking and leaping about like he did that time after a spicy curry, desperately trying to rid himself of his ghostly passenger.

George reluctantly spun around to see what the commotion was about, instantly seeing the truth. Betsy was a hen, not ghost. Unless she was a ghost hen, but the likelihood was that she was not a ghost hen as they had become extinct by the 1950s.

George relayed the information to Wellington, who by now was rolling on the floor trying to get the ghost/hen off his back, yet Betsy still clung tightly to her host. At the news from his brother, Wellington finally calmed down and got back to his feet.

“Oh. Sorry about that, hen who is not a ghost hen.” Wellington apologised meekly, feeling more than a little silly.

“That’s okay,” Betsy smiled, “BECAUSE I AM A GHOST HEN!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!” She cackled as she lifted him into the sky, much to the astonishment of George, who then watched his brother being airlifted off into the distance by the maniacle hen.

“Bugger me.” George grumbled as he headed over to the shed. It was time to bring his alter-ego ‘Super Sheep’ out of retirement again…

Thanks to Kieren for the image, taken from real life.