Tuesday 20 th May 2003

The swallows appear to be back again. I think I mentioned before that they had turned up. Well, they went away again. Probably they were not our swallows, but just some advance party checking out the place. They have nested in our field shelter for the last two years now and last year we had two families in succession, one early and one late. I don’t mind them, in fact they are very useful as they swoop about eating up all the flies. Well, not ALL the flies, I’m afraid, but enough to make a pleasant change. One of the worse things, when the flies come back in force, is the fly spray HE or SHE put all over us. I don’t know which is worse, the flies or the smell of that stuff. Fortunately, it gets so expensive that they lose their enthusiasm towards the end of the season, so we finally get a bit a peace and quiet. I’m afraid not a lot new has happened this week. Still, a good week for standing quite still and listening to the grass growing. At least, that’s what Tregony tells me he is doing. I don’t mind. At his age he needs to have a little nap now and again. At least he is not like Wicky, rolling in the mud at every opportunity!

Wednesday 21 st May 2003

You know, I was thinking. Some animals are really unlucky when it comes to names. Horses are fine. They have really sensible names like Alezane, or Red Rum or Charlottown (a grandparent) and so on. Even Tregony is a fine name. But others? I was reminded of this when they came to bring our food this evening and SHE said “Oh, look, it’s Runny!” Well, first I thought she meant Wicky’s nose. Then, when I saw it wasn’t that (for a change), I thought she was referring to the weather, which has been a bit liquid of late. But no. SHE was speaking of Mr. Brabbit. Just at that moment he was crossing the Home Field and when he saw them coming, he got into a real state. First he ran to the field shelter, then he could see he had got himself into a corner, so he ran out again straight at HIM coming up the path with the food buckets. Well, what do you think he did. He ran straight at HIM. No wonder so many of them get run over by mote motes and brum brums. It’s living most of the time down holes what does it, I’m sure. Anyway, what kind of a name is Runny. And his wife’s no better. She hasn’t even got a name of her own – just Mrs. R. Brabbit. And it doesn’t stop there. How about their relatives – Flopsie, Mopsie and, what’s that other one? Ah, well. I suppose one shouldn’t mock the afflicted as my dam used to say.

Thursday 22 nd May 2003

This web site thing, that HE has been spending his time on these last few weeks, is getting out of control. HE has now gone and registered me on an internet site called “Diaryland”. HE was pleased as anything when he got me my own web name. I don’t know what he thinks this one is then. I have an idea he is planning to put this diary up on there as well, a sort of syndicated diary (whatever that means, an American newspaper term, I believe?). It’s hard enough, baring your soul each day, just for my fan club, but to go world wide? Imagine. Inuit sitting outside their hole in the ice, pygmies (African Wickies) laying in the sun, Japanese, while they digest their raw fish – all reading my innermost thoughts. It takes some getting used to.

The swallows are still dithering about, flying high in the air, playing tag and catching insects. But still not getting down to the serious business of nest building. SHE says it is just that they are building up their strength first before embarking on a family. Just give me the chance! I wouldn’t mess around, I’d go straight for it. I overheard THEM talking to Annie the other day about a mare foaling at age nineteen. If you ask me, just the perfect age – like me.

Friday 23 rd May 2003

Disaster! I’ve been secretly dreading it for the last few weeks now. Finally it’s happened. SHE brought the weigh tape along with her this breakfast time. SHE started on Tregony and when she finally managed to get the tape round him, I heard what I had been dreading. “He’s much too fat! I’ll have to CUT DOWN HIS FOOD! ”. Next she turned to me. It was no use HIM saying that it was just that SHE had put the tape round the wrong way or that Treg was puffing out as he was eating. She made such a fuss about my measurement that it quite (well almost) put me off my food. Hasn’t she heard of condition ? I have been getting well into condition since they put me out into Nine Fields and the rain brought the grass on. Well, surprise, surprise. Wicky was the only one who didn’t get moaned at, and he spends most of his time, at breakfast and tea, mopping up the crumbs that Treggy and I leave on the field shelter floor. I don’t know how you can tell with Wick anyway. His belly is always round , he’s like an oil barrel on stumps.

Saturday 24 th May 2003

Well, not as bad as I thought. Breakfast was normal and supper appeared to be O.K. although I did detect a lot of extra bits of straw in Wicky’s bucket (but then, there are always funny things in his bucket, I don’t know what he does, it’s always full of slobber. Ugh! It could be that I can’t detect what SHE has done to my feed as I always throw it out of the bucket and all over the floor. It’s a good feeling that. Like making a statement. What about, I don’t know, but it’s a powerful statement for all that. There is, as always, a down side. Wick’s hair is usually all over the floor and it is not really a lot of fun trying to pick your way though your tea and getting mouthfuls of disgustingly dirty (and smelly) old grey hair. That’s maybe why I’ve not noticed too much of a change. I just skim the nice succulents off the top and leave the rest of the chaff. My old dam always told me to think of the poor starving foals on the Steppes. Well, they are welcome to my left overs if they can get off their steps quick enough to beat Wicky to it.

Harry was out, in the field next door, today. I worry about him sometimes, great big gollump that he is. He doesn’t always seem to enjoy being out in the field, hangs about near his gate a lot waiting for his staff to come and collect him. And when he’s not waiting then he wastes good eating time by prancing about, belting up and down his field as if the phantom pharrier (that’s living with the pheasants – buggers up your spelling) was after him. He’s a real nice lad though. Nice size to him. Make some mare a lovely mate if his staff hadn’t gone and taken him to the wrong vet. Really. Not many of them are to be trusted. Vets! You’ve no idea how familiar some have been with me. But that’s another story.

And what do you think the result of all this weeping and gnashing of teeth is going to be? Diet food! We’ve had it before, rotten muck. ‘Slim & Healthy’ it’s called. More like Weak & Weedy? Last time SHE tried that on me, I just threw it on the floor and left it. In the end, I got HER so worried that she went out and changed it for some proper food. I thought at first that it might just be that HE was upset by getting the bill for the field drainage and so was trying to save money. But it’s no cheaper. HE should have known that. Only the other day HE was moaning that a tub of his low fat, cholesterol reducing butter substitute cost about five times as much as real butter. We’re in for hard times!

Sunday 25 th May 2003

I knew, but didn’t dare tell Treggy. And Wicky wouldn’t care anyway. I had half been expecting it, but then you forget, as it’s not really that important anyway. Not to me, that is. SHE seems to think that it is one of life’s essentials, without which the planet would cease to exist, or something. SHE does have a thing about it. I expect it comes from her early career as a nurse. Anyway, as I was saying. I had forgotten until this morning when, instead of putting Wicky’s bucket down first (remind me to do something about that) and then mine, leaving old Treg to last, as it should be, HE gave Wicked Squirt his first and then by-passed me and gave the old man his next. Well, I was so taken aback, I had to go and push Wick out of the way and make a start on breakfast with his bucket. Then HE came back and, instead of putting my bucket down in its rubber ring (an old mote mote tyre really) so that I could put my nose in it, tip it out and hurl it all over the floor, as usual, HE stands there and holds my bucket, so I have to eat out of it properly. That aroused my suspicions even more. When HE stood holding it until I had eaten all the good bits and was down to the old chaff rubbish they put into it to bulk it out (thinking we don’t notice) and HE still didn’t give up and treat me with a polo or two, that’s when I fell in .. HE even scooped out the last little drop of the stuff for me to eat before the treats came rolling in. HE obviously was very interested in my eating ALL of my breakfast and that can only mean one thing. Medicine, or to be more precise, WORMERS! Don’t tell Treg though, promise. If Treggy knows there’s a wormer about he just goes into steamroller mode and charges, unstoppably, to the very farthest corner of the field and stands with his back to you and his eyes tight shut until the threat goes away. I wonder what terrible thing happened to him in his past. I wonder?

Monday 26 th May 2003

It’s THEIR wedding anniversary today, so perhaps it will be a good day with lots of treats. I prefer polos , Treg is mad about swede and Wicky just eats anything, as long as you give him time (his poor old teeth are not so good any more (if they ever were?). On the other hand, I’ve not known them to make much celebration about it in the past, more often as not, they forget all about it. Still, one lives in hopes as all noble animals do who have to rely on human staff.

I overheard him, today, talking about suicide bombers and was not quite sure if he was talking about those wabbits again or the birds that fly right in front of his mote mote and dare it to hit them. There was a squirrel, only the other day that dashed out in front of it, only to have a quick change of plan and dash back into Pete Watson’s garden. A grey, of course. I think all the red squirrels must have been more successful at suicide and wiped themselves out. The trouble is, it’s catching. Yesterday he told me of the badger he had seen, lying on the side of the old A30 (what a shame it must be, when someone comes along and builds a new road, gives it your name and never bother to tell everyone what your new name is, so they go on calling you ‘the old … .‘ forever). I must admit, he wasn’t really sure if the badger committed suicide or if he was just a bit distracted as he crossed the street, you know what muddled old creatures they are. I mean, what do badgers care about that strongly anyway. It’s enough that humans are always trying to kill them off, they don’t need to join in so enthusiastically. It does give rise to a thought, though. There must come a day when, like the red squirrel, all the world’s suicide bombers will make themselves extinct. I’m not making a political statement here, just thinking out loud. And is there room in heaven for all of them? Come to that, would you want to go there if it’s full of such fanatics?

Tuesday 27 th May 2003