Dear diary,
I’d so forgotten how much I don’t like being out 24/7. I go through this every year. The excitement of the thought of being out 24/7 temporarily overrides my memory banks (sort of like childbirth – or so I’m told), meaning that I conveniently forget that there are more bad points than at a bad guys’ dart club. But give me a few days for the heady thought of having access to grass 24 hours a day to wear off and poof! It’s all back once again like the renegade master.
First off and probably largest on the list of why imagination is better than reality is the fact that being out does NOT mean a green all you can eat buffet 24/7. Oh no. For I have a mother who thinks that giving me a mere 2cm of grass every hundred billion hours is acceptable. I can look at grass 24/7, but eat it? Oh, don’t be so silly. I suppose one positive is she hasn’t resorted to muzzles again. She did one year. I have never identified with Hannibal Lector so much in all my life, I can tell you. If it wasn’t for the fact that mother’s brains wouldn’t feed a very, very tiny (and cannibalistic) dormouse, then I could have taken it from “identifying with” to “copycatting” faster than you could pour the accompanying chianti.
Anyways, back to my list.
Secondly, you forget that 24/7 means 24/7. Period. It doesn’t sadly mean “24/7 as long as it’s fine” – nope, it means 24/7 even if it’s raining sideways and blowing a gale. It’s fair to say that unlike some men, I’m not a fan of wet and wild – especially when describing my mane. I would like to point out that the closest the mothership gets to sleeping al fresco is when she leaves the window open in her five-star hotel, so why should I be subjected to soggy sleeping arrangements? I could at least get a sleeping bag… and a tent.
Thirdly, when I’m in the barn I get to sleep on shavings and rubber mats – both of which are comfortable on my aged joints. As, unlike the blubbership, I am not in possession of natural padding so lying on hard ground with a thistle up my unmentionables is not my idea of fun. Come morning I’m all seized up and frankly getting up runs the risk of some passerby phoning Greenpeace to rescue a landlocked, stranded turtle. I have tried sleeping standing up but it’s a lot harder than it looks and there’s only so many times you can fall over then style it out as some sort of intended breakdance move at 4am. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for to have a mattress upon which to lay my manly but slightly more mature carcass.
Fourthly, let’s talk birds. And no, I don’t mean the slang for those most complicated of female creatures. I mean like actual birds. The type that thinks singing about worms at zero dark thirty hours is socially acceptable. If I could get up off the floor quicker, I would drop kick tweetie into next week. I know the early one supposedly catches the worm and all that nonsense, but can’t they catch it silently? Sort of like a nun. Nun birds – that should be a thing. By like royal decree or something.
Anyway, I’m off to ponder if I need to develop something like PMT as Barbie Boy gets to go in every night and I’m starting to think the pint-sized pain in the posterior is a lot more intelligent than he looks. Which wouldn’t be hard – if we went on looks then most people would average his IQ in single figures…
Laters,
Hovis
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