Don't ask.....

            I take it that the majority of you, my learned readers, have indeed at some point in your existence have had occasion and reason to grind upon your molars and lay curses upon the saying “the best laid plans of mice and men…” taken from the Burns’ poem ‘To a mouse..’. Well for this little Welsh Hobbit the week gone by has indeed dampened his enthusiasm for the making of plans, no matter how trivial seeming, for a goodly while to come me thinks.

            Today is the start of six, yes six, whole days of freedom from ‘the grind’, I even booked half a shift off last night’s shift to enjoy the six days without feeling like some bleedin’ sore headed ogre for the first couple of days off (the after effects of me cider is bad enough!). The prospect of a couple of long meandering walks exploring uncharted ground with that scruff of a Warthog alongside of me, well ok disappearing into the distance, consumed my thoughts and I eagerly waited for the time ahead. Now I know that wishing your life away is such a waste but the laborious ticking of the clock could not trundle along fast enough to the start of this week until that is….

            Oh now don’t you lot start with the sympathetic crooning for her, she’s still a bloody nuisance injured or not. So here’s the tale; last Wednesday evening after an absolute stinker in work (oh curse bless my shift leaders and their managers with their communication skills of a block of concrete), myself and the Warthog headed for a jaunt to what has become a regular location for us of late, Nercwys Forest. But being regular does not mean boring though for we try a different route each time and as you all know there is always something different and even intoxicating about being surrounded by Mother Nature and all her achievements, sometimes the jaw drop caused by a spectacular sunset …

Or the fascinations of a small find which I had no knowledge of before; indeed after returning home I had to look up the creatures’ pictured below and it turns out that they are ‘Common Sexton’ beetles or more, ahem, romantically ‘Grave digger’ beetles and were in the process of excavating a hollow in which to bury poor Moley who would then act a food reserve for the beetles eggs/larva once deposited on him, gruesome but quite enthralling don’t you think?

So the walk itself was a blast, what with grand vistas and the joy of the small drama unfurled before us. Little was I to know of the drama that would be awaiting Clare and myself once the wanders returned home. Once through the front door (no it is not round nor is it green, mores the pity), Willow headed for the water bowl and then carried on with her customary after walk collapse upon the sofa whilst I headed for the shower to wash away the grime and aches of the day, it does seem to me that as the years catch up on me the aches don’t seem to get any less nor does the amount of crap from the grind, whether it be machine lubrication or managers bullshit. Anyway back to the plot, refreshed from the shower I contemplated opening up another home produced cider, risky I know but oh the rewards far out weigh the next day’s frayed around the edges and slightly out of focus feeling. Clare – “before you settle just take a look at Willow’s rear left, she seems mighty interested in it” (alright Clare didn’t exactly say ‘mighty’ but come on guys poetic licence?). “Probably a scratch or a thorn stuck in her Velcro like fur” thought I. Oh foolish mortal that I am, I was not expecting what came to light as I held her leg to examine it; for there under her fur was a hole in her skin that stretched right across her legs’ width and tendons and bone could clearly be seen. Immediately I was full of concern and guilt, concern for the health of the little mite and guilt that I had no idea that she was so severely injured. In my defence there had not been the slightest drop of blood nor had the tough little bugger given any sign whilst on the trial, neither yelp nor limp had occurred, although she now made a meal of it holding her leg high as she limped along on the other three with the most reproachful look at me that she could muster!

We phoned the vet’s immediately explaining the situation to a very sleepy sounding Mr. Evans. Half an hour later we’re holding Willow, Clare on the leg, myself soothing and holding her head (Willow’s you fools) whilst we gratefully watched Mr. Evans carry out his examination. He was surprised at the lack of bleeding for the size of the wound but also concerned about the chances of infection being as both tendon and bone had been scraped. The wound he washed out fully and applied with some anti bacterial cream or similar type potion. It was only when he commenced the first of four stitches (with a bent needle that could have landed Moby Dick I felt!) that the blood appeared, oh boy like a larva flow from a fresh Icelandic eruption. It’s here that I have to admit to a slight failing within my character, I’m not good with blood. Yes you may titter at this supposedly gruff out doors type but blood can sometimes have a weird affect upon me and my constitution. Clare glanced over at me as I stared to sway, “go and sit down, your grey”, not feeling particularly macho at this point I meekly obeyed and gratefully thudded down in a waiting room chair, only to here the sniggering and tittering from Mr. Evans and Clare at my expense – bugger.

It’s been four full days since these events and Willow is healing nicely, she’s putting full weight upon her leg now (enough to snatch a biscuit from beside my cup of tea the little….), the prospect of infection now seems thankfully very slim and she’s doing our heads in being as we cannot walk her yet and she’s like a coiled spring not knowing what to annoy us with next. So we’re on baby sitting duties until the stitches are removed and the threat of infection has gone completely, should be a peaceful week then……

Ah just one more thing speaking of sitting duties, remember me sort of mentioning a broody hen recently? Well I spoke to my chicken guru John, and the upshot was we had three choices; chicken dinner (only joking, well…), trying to break her out of the broody stage by keeping her off the nest all day in separate accommodation, or giving her some fertilised eggs to mother, guess which way we went?

John kindly provided six fertilised eggs at my favourite price but the thing is we have no idea what to expect if any of them hatch, two were definitely from another Bantam (Silky me thinks), but as for the other four? Well I have no idea what may emerge, We'll just be glad though if any hatch and that they are healthy hens especially since Cruella seems to have gone on egg strike as a mark of solidarity while Penelope sits on her precious, as they say, “watch this space”.

Till next time, take good care of you and yours,

Your friend,

John

Bloody hell stop the presses, just nipped down stairs for a brew and to check upon the Warthog, last seen blissfully sleeping in the morning sun upon our bed: Yep Willow still on the bed sound asleep, but wait why's there a battery on the floor? and what's that sharp plastic embedded in me foot? and oh shit that's the remains of the bedside clock! why the little.... bollocks I'm in for it now when Clare gets home ah well such be life, now where's me big mug - might be me last brew.....