Still, it’s been a funny 18 months in all. By which I mean deeply traumatic and deeply, deeply unpleasant.
After a false start with a new family last spring (I ate their cat), I have been remanded on B Wing indefinitely. I am now a cur no less, and a danger to the little horses they keep in the paddock next-door. Judith, who now walks us and is something of a cretin, muttered something about a petting zoo being there now, hence we are marched around the lanes these days, away from the precious ponies, and that massive cockerel I like barking at. Nevertheless, after the timely destruction of my nemesis (the irksome spaniel) these enforced walks have subjected me to an even greater misery of late...
Tethered in packs by the simpleton Judith, I am placed at the mercy of another drooling mongoloid: Fitz the Boxer dog, whose remorseless attempts to sniff my genitals prompt yelps of delight from both Roxy the Doberman, and Misty, the blind-in-one-eye Patterdale. Now, as to whether this beast is innately homosexual or simply suffering an episode of the dreaded cabin fever is neither here nor there to me. What is clear however is that these sordid affections of her's must be addressed. The poor woman needs help! But by whom? The vacant Judith? Or Daisy the Saturday girl who stinks of baby ferrets?
I think not.
And yet…
I may, dear reader, have just shat upon the answer. For lying here now, defecating on to the Metro newspaper which lines my cage, I suddenly spotted this advertisement for The Albert Kennedy Trust.
Could they help Fitz the gay Boxer dog you think? And more to the point, is Sir Ian McKellen really gay or is he just acting?
Arf!
