Jack's regression into extreme youth, and it's ensuing hijinks, continues apace. Frankly, I don't know where this will all end, except possibly with my having a nervous breakdown. He might as well just get a toupee (or rug, as he calls it), a motorized sports vehicle with a retractable top and a pair of those wrap-around sunglasses. It's most unseemly in one so ancient. When I suggest he act his age, he replies that he is acting exactly as old as he feels.
The latest events began when I was slumbering in the sun and felt a light pressure against my side. I heard Jack's muffled voice saying "be keerful sonny, the blue puffball's after ya". I opened my eyes slightly and turned to see that indeed, a ginormous blue sphere was pressed into my side. It was hideous, the mother of all puffballs, and obviously a mutant of special colour. I trumpeted a warning and charged directly into a tree. When I recovered, the thing was still upon my person, so I dropped my hind end and launched myself into the field, hitting the ground at a tremendous pace. Jack remained at my side and that's when I realized he was the one pressing the object against me and that in fact it was an equine plaything called a "Jolly Ball". I felt distinctly un-jolly and berated Jack in no uncertain terms. He didn't care one whit - just stood there wheezing and chuckling to himself like one demented.
That very same night Jack decided that his tail needed a good rubbing and so he backed up to his waterbucket and began to shimmy back and forth while emitting a low humming sound. The water in the bucket formed itself into waves and finally into an enormous tsunami which shot into my room, soaking my bedding. He said he was sorry and told me I could share his room, which would be fine if there weren't a gate inbetween. Then he lay down in his own thick, DRY bed and was asleep in no time. I stood in a puddle up against the wall till morning when the woman released us.
The last bit is entirely the woman's fault. She has begun to play these disc things that contain music in the tack room, often singing along tunelessly and much too loud. The music varies widely, sometimes classical, sometimes the dreadful rock and roll cacophany and the other day something called bluegrass. I have not heard this sort of "music" before and to my well-tuned ears it sounds like grown men howling and shrieking along with plaintive-sounding string instruments, notably something called a banjo. The themes are dismal and feature coal mining, betrayal, loss, disaster, crop failure and the demise of someone or something called "ole Dixie".
Jack was touched to his core. He stood outside the tack room window and listened carefully and then he began to "sing" along. He brayed and bellowed and groaned and, combined with the bluegrass noise, it sounded like the torture of the damned. The woman finally turned the racket off and went out to see if Jack was alright. He was just fine and was quite annoyed at having his accompaniment removed. Thankfully, she took the disc back to the house, saying she was afraid the neighbours would report us for animal cruelty. I wonder if Jack may originally hail from the southern United States . . .
Unfortunately, she continues to play Doc's favourites, the electricians' group called AC/DC and Molly's favourite, a collection of disco hits. My favourites, Beethoven, Bach, Handel and the other pillers of classical music appear only occasionally. I need to move to Vienna.