Dear diary,
I am free! After eight weeks of boring, boring, boring box rest, I am finally free! No more torture via local radio stations being left on all day, no more attempts at commando crawling out of my stable when she-who-has-eyes-in-the-back-of-her-head was seemingly not watching, and no more diet of handfuls of wilted grass picked by mini-mother. Freedom!
Admittedly freedom is a relative word. I am out on grass but to be fair, even the most talented of estate agents would have trouble describing the tiny patch as anything other than “bijou”. It is quite literally the size of my stable and I can firmly assure you that any attempts to do anything other than stand and eat results in a considerable electric shock due to mother and the boss lady’s skills with fencing which appears wired to electric chair voltage. Any cat swinging in this space would have you up on animal cruelty charges faster than you can say frazzled feline. Mother has taken the “don’t let him run about until the plate is changed” very, very literally. To be fair, my tiny patch is moved daily so at least I am getting grass, and going on the state of the patches in my wake, I am missing out on a career levelling bowling greens — my ability to reduce the area to a uniform 2mm is a skill set that I’m just not exploiting.
Cool New Shoes Man is coming out today to fit me with a new custom-made plate, which will signal the end of mum and the boss lady unscrewing the plate off my foot every other day. To be fair, they’ve got quite adept at it but I still don’t see Lewis Hamilton asking them to be on his pit crew any time soon…
I’m also going to be fitted with some sort of contraption to the front of my foot to stop the rabbit militia using the cavern as a smoking shelter in the rain. Apparently CNSM has a “plan”. I can’t tell you how worried this statement makes me — this is not the A-team, he is not Hannibal and I can see this not coming together at all. I’m sure she-who-has-no-social-boundaries will post the pictures all over my Facebook — well either her or CNSM — although to be fair, he does at least attempt to be arty in his photos. I’m not sure what kind of art requires him sticking his tongue up my nose, but he did assure me it was all very necessary…
In other news, I have got to watch with absolute amusement as the cowardly cow-patterned coblet has now been introduced to the beast which is know as the “riding instructor”. Many years ago I was subjected to the horror that was Evil Army Man, who is still to this day my dentist. I learned very quickly that it’s much easier in the long run to capitulate swiftly and then just pray they get bored before you are reduced to the size of a Shetland drowning in your own sweat. This is because I am intelligent.
He however is clearly lacking in anything between his little twitchy ears and decided that a route of obstinate disobedience was a smart way forward. Big mistake, huge…
Mini-mother’s instructor is female, very pleasant and shall thus be known as the Terminator — she just does not stop; which much to my intense amusement meant neither did the pint-sized pain in my posterior. By the time he and mini-mother collapsed back into the barn, I had laughed myself hoarse and was already looking forward to the next session. I sense his lack of self-preservation and typical cob stubbornness will ensure many hours of endless entertainment — well for me anyway.
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After further blotting his copy book by having a total meltdown about having a shower on the Sunday, I am enjoying my position back at the top of the “most favoured feathered fellas” list. Mother manipulation is an art form and seriously, he is an amateur…
So I’m off to enjoy my grass patch, await Cool New Shoes Man to come and work his magic on my holey foot and fantasise about hacking around Windsor with her majesty.
Laters,
Hovis
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