Dear diary,
So, the funds might be sneaking up enough that we have managed to buy some medium sized balls for the every puny spring. We have managed to ease the water works off to a mere shower-like dribble, but now the thermostat has been turned down – we had FROST this morning! I am more and more thinking that mother’s muttered comments about winter being a woman (stroppy, forceful, possibly hormonal and definitely able to do more than one thing at once), and spring being a bloke (slightly whimpy when faced with said aforementioned strong woman and quite clearly only able to do one thing at once) might actually, for once, be true. And I am a bloke…
Still, there are signs, small ones admittedly (sort of like the size of springs balls), that things might be slowly changing. We now have enough green shoots of grass that the kill joys in every vet practice in the country have already issued their dire warnings about laminitis – too many moments on the lips equals shorter lifetime for the hips – and up and down the country sales of electric fencing are being bought by middle-aged ladies of questionable poundage on whom the irony is totally lost. I have often mused a grazing muzzle for humans is the singular most missed invention of the modern age…
Anyways, taking of grass, I have suffered yet another outrage this week.
So, if you recall the ginger whinger, who has PMT, went lame a while back and caused all sorts of drama. Although I note with some pride, he has not yet reached anywhere near my skill in both causing tears, angst, drama and a bill to rival most third world countries’ national debt…
Anyway, since then, he has been turned out on the all-weather surface with haynets and what not with the odd wander about on the grass for grazing. This is due to where his field is so boggy and deeply rutted, his delicate, spindly little legs can’t cope and, unlike me, he’s not being asked to levitate on a daily basis. Please note unfairness levels rising…
Because it seems a move to the summer fields might now be imminent if spring can continue the limp-wristed fight, a minor panic has ensued that the pint-sized pain in the posterior will colic/get laminitis/come out in hives if put on grass after a period off it. So, thus, these single brained celled humans have decided he needs to go back onto some grass. Like, duh?
However, his field is now quite full of grass and still some distant away so these walking amoebas with hair have decided the best course of action is to out him in MY field. With ME! Unfairness levels? Off the chart…
So, I now have a sectioned off part of my field, which by the way has about as much grass in it as mother has money in the bank – which is to say it is bereft – in which the blonde bouffanted berk is currently residing.
Note, we have to be sectioned off because he is an evil small man with issues of jealousy regarding my size, manliness and all-round superstar qualities and has been known to launch a barrage of kicks at my head. I am far too much of a gentleman to hurt something small and belonging to my favourite small person, so we have to be kept apart.
I’m not sure how long this sub-renting is supposed to be going on for, but I fear it may be a while. To be fair, if dirty looks could kill, I am not sure which one of us would be dead first as it’s clear he’s not exactly thrilled with this idea either, but since trying to talk sense into mother is like trying to resuscitate week old roadkill, both of us are resigned to our fate.
Life sucks.
Laters,
Hovis
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