I am in the dog house. Big style. I am officially a hangdog Hovis hound, in trouble with she-who-must-be-obeyed AND the boss lady.
It started last Friday when the boss lady had fetched me in and washed my legs until they were pearly white and fluffy. I thought that such poofiness was unmanly so rectified this by digging in the sandy soil by my gateway as soon as I was returned to the field. By the time mum arrived, my feathers were back to a much more acceptable brownish hue and mum was muttering about me needing a bath. The muttering turned into a tirade about my ancestry when she learned that I had been bathed only that morning; the boss lady looked positively distraught.
So on Sunday, mum fetched me back down to the yard for a proper bath, whereupon I may have demonstrated that I’m feeling quite well by dragging her all over the place in the pursuit of grass. What can I say? She’s starving me to death and the grass in the lane is really yummy. I see no issue with using it like a drive-through and grabbing grass as we prance past. Mum however does not share my view point and for the return journey, the control element of my head collar was firmly engaged.
So I might have fidgeted a little when being bathed, which may have resulted in mum getting a little wetter than she was intending, and then when she started using a nit comb on my feathers to remove the grease build up (a NIT comb — the embarrassment) I might have objected slightly. At the same time, some sort of earthquake caused all the mucking out equipment to fall over which was just such a coincidence and in no way related to me. Mum didn’t see it this way and while tackling the falling forks may have been overheard discussing the relative merits of changing hobbies — to something like knitting…
So it’s fair to say I was already in the dog house long before the events of Sunday night/Monday morning when the boss lady discovered to her horror that I was a tad stiff on my injured leg resulting in her having to make one of THOSE phone calls to a Scotland-bound mother. Small ginger dude’s mum snitched on me and told the boss lady that I’d been hooleying around the field — although mother’s less than flattering description of a “fat Michel Flatley on an acid trip” was a little unkind. My widened field was promptly shortened again as postage stamp paddock turnout was re-established. As you read this, Cool New Shoes Man will here and Herman the German later today to look at the damage. Mother was last heard thumping her head into the wall.
So wish me luck — a backward step in my recovery may send mother into a tail spin of the type that would make the Tasmanian devil on the waltzers look calm.