I have now officially given up counting whatever day it is of the humans strangles epidemic, as the last time I saw numbers that big, they were on the blubbership’s bank statement – with a minus sign in front of them…
I also frankly don’t have time to count as I’m too busy settling into my new place, fending off the ladies with a yard broom and trying to distract mother from daft ideas about putting me onto the horse hamster wheel the way Barbie Bozo is being made to do. Well OK, one of those is a slight lie, but I equally have to be careful not to appear too easy to catch for fear of diminishing my price on the stock market of lurve.
In terms of settling in, I am now beginning to remember to move my head before someone enters my penthouse and decapitates me in the sliding doors, and I have discovered I don’t fit into the cupboard at the back of my stable – best not to ask how I now know that, but let’s just say the reversing manoeuvre I had to pull would have meant I would be qualified as an HGV driver if a DVLA examiner had been watching. Any analogies to wide loads are not appreciated at this time…
I am working on training my new human slaves, who at the moment, seem rather more focussed on following mother’s now (as predicted) lengthy instructions than pandering to my every need, but it’s early days, and as we all know, my coaching skills are legendary. Quite why they listen to her about moving my fence back when everyone can see I am a wee svelte slimster, who is in desperate need of sustenance I know not but then we all know mother suffers from diet by proxy issues. As a photo from Aunty Em clearly shows, I am so obvious in my message that even William Shatner could have read it from space, so hopefully they will make like the BBC and get with the programme shortly.
Talking of photos and being obvious, the new Cool Dude Yard Owner does like to send mother lots of photos of me and the blonde bimbette, although whether he’s doing this because he’s a lovely man who knows mother misses me, or as some sort of proof of life to save him from her more psychotic sensibilities, is unclear. I do however wish he hadn’t photographed me playing tonsil hockey the other evening with the ginger mare in the field next to me, as I can already hear the horrified squawking of a mothership, who likes to think I am still a vestal virgin (the reality is more like a eunuch after the wrongful removal of my bouncy baby makers, but let’s not go there). I can sense mother ready to go and have the “mum” chat with my new admirer, which will end any hope of me getting anywhere near Homebase – and to be clear, I don’t mean the DIY place. I know that I may be taking my life in my own hands with a fiery redhead, but man she’s HOT and moreover keen as mustard on me; something I can totally understand, but in my experience, women are mercurial beings at the best of times, and just because they like you, doesn’t mean that your face is safe from them trying to rip it off if you answer questions like “does my butt look big in this rug” with the honesty we men are told you respect…
So, my love life is looking up, my new abode is pretty fab but there remains a slight fly in the ointment.
The horse hamster wheel.
Now, I’m a massive fan of the blonde blimp being made to go in there to combat his PMT, but I do not have the same issues. I am a racing snake with a physique so sharp and honed Gillette want to name a razor after me – I am so muscled I have honorary membership to the mollusc hall of fame. I don’t need to go around in that contraption under any circumstances. Sadly, and unsurprisingly, mother doesn’t agree. Colour me surprised…
In fairness, the score on the issue of getting me into said wheel of death stands at Hovis 1: Mother 0 but I sense a rematch on the cards at any moment, which may involve slightly less carrot and slightly more stick, but since she tried with me only in a headcollar the other day and I planted so firmly, the major oak is asking for tips on staying power, I am going to bask in my (possibly short-lived) victory.
Anyway, I’m off to further my in-depth research as to whether blondes have more fun or whether it is in fact red heads, work on my Uri Geller fence moving by mind control and figure out ways to avoid being made to go round in more circles than a Brexit negotiation.
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