Dear Diary
It’s official my mother is lame. And no I’ve not gone all American now I am a film star — I mean she really is lame (well if you count hands as being lame). She has fractured her right hand so is currently about as much use as an umbrella in a hurricane and moaning like a thoroughbred in a snowstorm. It should be noted that if she’d gone to hospital when she had actually hurt her hand rather than continue to muck out, poo-pick and groom me within an inch of my life — until the point when she couldn’t even make a fist then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I wouldn’t point this out though if I were you — her left hand is equally as quick as her right.
She’s currently wearing this ridiculous looking thing on her hand which makes her look like she’s got flippers. I was very tempted to chuck her my treat ball and see if she could balance it on her nose but I valued my life a tad too much…
She’s got to see the orthopaedic surgeon (which all sounds rather alarming) next week to be told if she has to wear a pot on her hand. I asked the old foreign dude what a pot was and he said that people smoked it to feel happy. This confused the daylights out of me — especially when he said they also call pot grass? Now I eat grass and it makes me feel great but I’m not sure smoking it is a good idea?
Surely this is how these wild fire things start which sure as heck wouldn’t make me feel too happy — burnt Hovis is not a look I want to try out. I am thus a tad alarmed for mother’s safety if this orthopaedic man is going to wrap her in grass like giant cannelloni and then set fire to her. Dolly did assure me that the foreign dude has possibly smoked too much grass himself. I’m therefore going to keep my eye on him — any sign of matches near my grass and he’s going to be seeing tweety birds for a whole different reason…
Anyway with mother out of action and with me still confined to “walk” duty, I am looking forward to a nice few weeks off. Unless mother convinces Aunty Becky to start my fitness campaign ready for Herman the German Needle Man to come and re-assess me. I’m praying, with her right hand out of commission, mother can’t type but knowing her she’d probably do it with a twig clutched in her teeth just to thwart me.
It’s like the other night, with mother out of the picture I was enjoying some pampering from the boss lady, generous hay nets, nice bed and no stress. So when Dolly’s mum came over for what I thought was a lovely cuddle to comfort me from the trauma of having such a Muppet for a mother — I was surprised but enthusiastic in my response. Snuggling up to her in a way which was pretty much (in my view) guaranteed to melt the hardest of hearts and thus pave the way for her to open my treat bucket. Or so I thought…
She reached up and scratched my withers. I turned my big melting brown eyes onto full Bambi power.
She put her arms around me and cuddled my head. I leant against her blowing adoringly down her neck.
She shoved wormer down my throat. I tried to spit it on her hair.
She held my nose until I swallowed the vile stuff. I plotted her demise.
All in all, it’s safe to say it didn’t go to plan but by all accounts mother was very grateful. Which figures…
In other news, I’m thrilled to have heard from so many of you on my Facebook page that you got my books for Christmas and have enjoyed them. As you know, all the proceeds go to charity so you get a giggle and they get some cash — win/win. Well apart from my lack of payment in any form — for my hilarious humour and dastardly wit. Charity begins at home? Tell that to my mother.
Anyway, I’m off to see how many sticky buds I can get caught in my feathers — just to then time how long it takes one-handed-wally to get them all out left handed when she gets back at the weekend. Heh I wouldn’t want her to get bored!
Laters
Hovis
