Once, well, no, quite a few times actually, there was a dog who cried, “Custard!”
He’d cry it at night and he’d cry it by day. Sometimes he even cried it in his sleep.
“Custard! Custard! Custard!”
It was very annoying for his neighbours. There they were all tucked up in bed and ready for sleep, when, “Custard! Custard! Custard!”
Or maybe they were in the garden, enjoying a few moments peace in the sunshine,
when, “Custard! Custard! Custard!”
That dog was at his tricks again.What a nuisance.he was.
“Custard! Custard! Custard!” he’d cry and, what made it even more annoying, was that there was no sign at all of the stuff. No one in that village had seen any custard for years and years. Most of the villagers didn’t even know what custard was.
“Custard is a kind of insect with wings and a trunk,” one suggested.
“No, no,” said another. “Custard is a farming tool used for harvesting peanuts.”
“Don’t be silly,” said a third. “Custard is a hooded cloak much favoured by eastern European noblemen.”
“Custard! Custard! Custard!” cried the dog.
After a while, as is the way with these things, the villagers got used to the dog’s cries and no one paid them any attention. They became as ordinary a part of the soundscape as a pigeon cooing or a door slamming.
Then one day, something terrible happened. A flood of hot custard came down from the mountain and swept through that village like lava, destroying everything and everyone in its path. Nothing was saved.
And do you know what, that dog never said a thing.
Moral: Don’t mess with custard!