Friday, February 1, 2008

Woe Is Me

The shocking weather just goes on and on. More wind and blowing snow. I am posting a photo of self in our run-in to show the state of utter despair to which I have been reduced. Please also note the primitive state of said run-in. Unfinished walls, rubber mats on the floor - not a scrap of wallpaper or a square of carpet. I believe it's much like those Gulag prison camps I have heard of. At least I got to stay in the barn for the morning to enjoy a leisurly brunch before being thrust out into the elements.

TJ is more insufferable than ever. His take on yesterday's events with the foot man beggars belief. He has positioned it as a David and Goliath tale in which he fought and vanquished the ogre, leaving the battleground bloodied but unbowed. When I pointed out his newly trimmed feet he used a phrase that has become dear to his heart and told me not to be "utterly bijiculous". Then he shoved me out the door of the run-in and played a new game in which he dashes back and forth between the two doors, denying me entry and shrieking "You's banned from my club - no old fat donkey men kin enter hahahaha!" Fortunately, Molly came up behind him and whacked him on top of the head with her none-too-dainty muzzle; I think I saw stars circling over his ears. I certainly hope so.

I would also like to point out that in this most recent photo, the white light emanating from my eyes is simply a trick of the camera, not a sign of demonic possession as the woman so kindly put it..

4 comments:

Ginger (Baker not Rogers) said...

Introducing Fred and Ginger
It has taken me far too long to make this contribution to your esteemed blog. I had to wait for the Fat Lady to take this into work, where she has horse-speed internet. Unfortunately, living in the country, I have only donkey-speed internet, which is bound to put a crimp in my editorial ambitions.
Where to start?
I have been in this place for about three weeks. Previously, Fred and I lived with the lovely Lorelei in Pembroke, as well as eight or so equines, one of them a largish donkey called Applejack. We were, you could say, rather low on the equine pecking order, especially Fred who – frankly – is a bit of a foo-foo. We lived outdoors in a covered run-in and had to nip and zip into the all-you-can-eat buffet to avoid getting tromped on.
Fred (that’s Freddie Mercury, not Astaire) used to be called Rye but the Fat Lady thought that a bit twee so changed his name. I would like to make it perfectly clear that we do not dance, so don’t start.
Now we are housed in a palatial stall – the Fat Lady is always mumbling about warmbloods so I guess that’s what used to be here. She claims she put our water bucket at the “warmblood foal” height but we still couldn’t reach it. This is a good example of sheer sloth - she was obviously hoping she wouldn’t have to screw another hook-eye into the post.
We are certainly not warmbloods. In fact, this barn is absolutely freezing. We suffer daily from the frost and are annoyed to hear rumours that another equine “Annie” is comfortably relaxing in an Angus-heated barn and wearing a 1260 denier polyfilled Weatherbeeta blanket at that. The allure of said female was partly what attracted us to this place. Now we arrive and the promise of a large and luscious female has come to naught.
Furthermore, we are subjected to rude remarks about our toilet habits. The Fat Lady made it very clear from the outset that pooping in the alleyway was a no-no and mutters constantly about the thorough dispersal of donkey poop throughout our stall and, well, everywhere. We watched carefully as she furiously shovelled and swept the alleyway and strangely this is something she does daily. We know better than to poop there now – especially when you see the viciousness of her broom technique.
We are supplied with warm water 24/7 outside and in, so that’s an improvement but more muttering as she fills the buckets “They drank half a bucket – where is it going? The stall seems dry.” Well, it’s frozen, that’s where it’s going. See paragraph above. Likely we will be drowned in our sleep the next time it thaws.
Fred and I have been described as “gay” and I’m not certain what that means but we are happy. We spend endless hours chasing each other in tight circles, trying to bite bums, hocks, tails – anything we can reach. Last week we went at it so hard that Fred pooped on my forehead. You can imagine the Fat Lady’s dismay when I trotted up to see her with my new stiff hairdo.
I tried to engage the Big Guy human in this game last weekend, carefully approaching from behind and giving him a shove and a little nibble on the thigh. He didn’t seem to understand, just squeaked and shuffled faster. Like the Fat Lady, he is probably a bit dim but good fun nevertheless.
At least he changes the radio station to CBC 1 so that we can understand the news. The Fat Lady insists on dialling up Espace Musique and they talk so fast I can’t understand the weather report – which as you know is the heart of a donkey’s existence (next to food). We are slowly getting used to jazz and can even put up with the accordions but Fred is a country and western donkey and calls it “Spacey Music.” As for me, I understand a little French as we originally came from the wilds of West Quebec.
Fred and I are developing an unbridled enthusiasm for the fruit and vegetable event at night. The Fat Lady comes out with a bag of carrot and apple pieces but we have to wait for her to clean our stall and sweep (again!) until we’re fed. Last night I tried to hustle her along on the way to the manure pile – just a shove and a nibble and she turned and smacked me in the face! The nerve. Not that I care, but Fred has gone completely apoplectic and won’t go near her. The big guy says we share a brain. If that’s true, Fred sure got the small half. I thought it was funny and moments later took great pleasure in cuddling with her and showing her my white little teeth. Heh heh.
We are locked in at night – that’s new – and we have to listen to Spacey Music and eat hay and figure out new places to hide the salt block. Sometimes Fred wears the feed bucket on his head, which is fun.
Last weekend, Ginus came to buy hay and we were hustled out of the barnyard (our current prison) and into the east paddock – a vast wasteland of white. The snow was past our knees but we trudged through it like two submarines on reconnaissance. We noted the Bayco fencing and waited until the Fat Lady left to visit the absence equine harridan. I slipped under the fence but Fred, being abnormally large and quite stupid, couldn’t. So while I explored through many paddocks, Fred had to search up and down for a spot that could accommodate his height. He finally made it through and we had a good time chewing everything in sight.
Unluckily, we couldn’t quite remember how to get back in, so we were marooned in the distant reaches of the farm for what seemed like hours. When the Fat Lady returned, we were conspicuously absent. She searched out those silly halters that Lorelei gave her and a flashlight and bustled around yelling for us. Of course, we were right around the corner in front of the gate by the house. She finally found us and hustled us back to the barn, where we demolished a much deserved but barely adequate dinner.
So there you are. Hope you did not have to go out today – we declined the offer and even though the Fat Lady left the barn doors open, we will spend the whole day indoors, if possible wreaking havoc.

completecare said...

Thanks Sheaffer for posting the picture of you in your run-in shed. I think you should use that photo in your campaign literature. Voters are better able to relate to politicians who come from humble beginnings and are trying to work their way to the top. Besides, you might get some monetary donations for wallpaper and carpet from your loyal campaign followers. As a true politician you can secretly direct these funds into your personal off shore bank account. If you are not familiar with such high finance you could perhaps discuss things with Uncle Ed's winsone wife Wendy. She works in a corporate office and will be able to give you plenty of "inside"
advice!!!!!

Your fan,

Willy

Gale said...

Sheaffer, poor clueless little TJ. Has anyone told him that the foot man comes on a regular basis and that his dainty little feet WILL be trimmed no matter what? I fear he may be seeing more stars in the future! Perhaps his relief at having the procedure completed was responsible for his "keep away" game. Molly sounds like a sensible girl, looking out for you.

Who needs wallpaper and carpeting? I'm reminded of Abe Lincoln's humble beginnings, and the glimmer in your eyes speaks of a new era for donkeys, with twigs and stud muffins in every bucket, as you would say!

LOVE hearing from Fred and Ginger! Your list of admirers is growing, Sheaffer.

ponymaid said...

Well, well, young Ginger- very nice to get your full report on the state of the nation at Elfwood. Be very careful of the Fat Lady - she can appear quite charming and then suddenly turn on you with a swift upper cut if you so much as pinch her bottom. Continue to show her your pearly whites - it's good for humans to know we have those hidden away.

Willy, I am quite interested to hear more of these intriguing off-shore account things. Please tell Wendy I may suddenly materialize in her office to discuss these - I will be completely unrecognizable in a Panama hat and pair of sunglasses.

Gale, I need you to come here and have a word with the delinquent TJ - he refuses to listen to me. This Abe and his rustic cabin sound intriguing but I may be more suited to the plush and plentiful "Camelot" era of the Kennedys. Mind you, the inside of a log cabin provides endless whittling opportunities...