It has seemed awfully quiet the last few days and we are all beginning to lose that glazed look. I have thought deeply on the events of the big day and have some observations to share.
I have studied those porta-potties and I don't trust them. They are the size of a small standing stall turned on end, which is to say quite compact. Humans go in and seem to simply disappear. Perhaps I glanced away at a crucial moment but maybe they are just dematerialized. I have no scientific evidence to the contrary so for now I will avoid them. The woman calls them the "Tardis" - she is as mad as a hatter.
Russell Mule doesn't trust them either. Last year he had a terrible time convincing the humans that he had to answer the call of nature -they obtusely guessed at everything else until he practically dragged them into a stall. This year he was much more comfortable being at the party because he had good memories from last year. He discretely concealed himself behind a large shurb and used it instead of a stall. He says he wouldn't give those porta-potties the time of day. That is how a young mule gets to be an old mule.
PrimRose's new hat is the height of millinery elegance. I admired her from afar but didn't dare approach the distinguished lady herself. Last year I tried and she made a snorking noise and twitched her tail, so I must admire in secret and hide my unrequited love. Who knew that a middle-aged donkey bachelor could suffer such a "crise de coeur".
Speaking of hats, a young lady named Sabrina attended my party sporting the most magnificent salad-like creation on her head. She graciously presented me with a bag of donkey treats, hugged me gently and gallantly removed some small carrots from her hat and offered them as a snack. Too bad Queen Elizabeth 2 could not make it - I feel sure she would have rewarded such good breeding with a title -" Keeper of The Royal Hat", perhaps.
Carrot cake is an abomination. It has very little to do with carrots and appears to be coated with white vermifuge. The two large birthday cakes skulked on a table under an awning contraption and even though this year they did not arrange flames on the top (thanks to a brisk wind) I refused to approach too closely.
Those monkey cupcakes are the demon offspring of the carrot cakes.
The bake sale table contained no Stud Muffins.
Mosby does not feel thirty-five years of age and thinks a sign saying "Green, Rank Stud Inside!" was long overdue for the front of his stall. Emi, his human, agrees. Maybe if I had one of those PrimRose would give me a second look...
I was more than pleased to lend a hoof to such a worthy cause but relieved to finally retire to the quiet of my room. I confess, I was so tired that while the woman was cooking our dinner, one minute I was leaning over the stall guard giving her instructions and the next minute my nose began to brush the floor and my knees to buckle. I have a year in which to ruminate over all I have experienced and observed - I may have to write a book.