These dogs won't take me. It's a swift scrape that snatches this one, I'll tell you. They've been growling around the damn solar panels all day, probably thinking I'd be down for water. What they can't detect can't be shredded to bits by them, I say. All it takes is a digital transmitter that reads landscaping, with a rerouter on the police frequency. The little friggers think there's no one around because they're 'seeing' a sensory recording of when you weren't there. You just gotta hope they don't snoop outside your transmitter radius. I'll give the authorities a week to figure out that little trick before the bastard hounds' programming is updated. Until then I'll be eating canned peaches and UHT cream, dearie.
We've been storing data on them for weeks. The dogs, I mean. I'm going to try to get a live one today with a program I bought off some haggard cleric from Oman with a cleft lip and a mole the size of a peanut hanging from his damn eyelid. I'll be the first to hope he's not a loyalist pawning off detection software to speaker-folk like me. The thing seemed solid anyway. Better well be, cost me two litres of oil and the plastic bottle to go with it. I've got plenty.
Here goes nothing...
