Where There's Smoke, There's Fire!
an excerpt

The hadedahs that roost in the giant wild fig near the top of Hill Street had launched themselves into the day an hour before, with their usual grand cacophany of cries. They had swooped off across the town, each in their own direction, and were all probing the ground in their favourite worm-hunting spots. Three of them were now stalking purposefully around in the back garden of the digs, heads down, long beaks busy, eyes glittering. Now and then, their grey plumage revealed its irridescent shimmer of purple and green.

Valdemort, a fat young black Labrador, born the previous Hallowe'en, had been watching them uncertainly for half an hour from his blanket on the back stoep. His eyelids flickered sleepily as their discreet movements caught his attention. Experience told him they were not the cats from next door and that any attempt to catch them would be frustrated by an escape into sudden noisy flight. A few lazy flies buzzed about above his head. He snapped at them occasionally, distracted from his puzzled observation of the hadedahs. He sighed and closed his eyes again.

A fly settled on his nose and rubbed its wings briskly with its back set of legs. There was a rich store of food for flies close by. Valdemort, though, would have to wait a while longer to be fed. Unlike the flies, his food source depended on human intention.