Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Fenway in a Pickle.
You see, I have committed the crime of disallowing my human access to part of my anatomy. I know that as her beloved charge, her precious ward, I owe FarmWife the privilege of touching me where ever she sees fit to touch me, and in whatever manner she chooses. But . . . but. This is a big but. A part of my manly bits is irritated by the presence of some buildup, and nothing short of horse tranquilizer's gonna make me let her fix it. It would be ten seconds work, but those could very well be the worst ten seconds of my life. Not going to happen.
FarmWife has been working up to cleaning my sheath for 14 months. When I met her, I wouldn't allow her to touch my belly or my hind legs without threatening to kick, and now she is allowed to go so far as to feel and identify my terrible affliction but not so far as to ameliorate it.
Now, there are things to be weighed. On the one hand, FarmWife has the option of taking me to the vet. It would cost money (always in short supply here at Bent Barrow Farm) and would require a trailer ride (no biggy, I love the open road), but would mean getting my sheath cleaned under the tranquil comfort of heavy sedation. I think it would be more tolerable that way. It would also mean that Doctor Ratchet could have a look at my teeth and at my hock, of which the former might benefit from routine maintenance and of which the latter might aid in my return to the noble work of trail riding.
On the other hand, FarmWife could snub me to a stout tree, tie up a leg, and make me stand for it. It would be free. It would be quick. My forgiveness could be begged with toothsome morsels.
FarmWife has already tried the bribery- and reward-based systems of reinforcing good behavior, but in the fashion of men the world over I am more focused on the feelings of my p#^!$ (edited for young audiences) than the feelings of any other part of my anatomy—brain and mouth included. Edible, delectable, scrumptious snacks be damned. That's my thing you're messing with.
I am not going to be able to use my rational brain for this one, folks. I—the honorable Sir Fenway Bartholomule, keeper of the muleness and messenger of sensibility—cannot submit to the humiliating touch of even a gentle hand. It is beyond my abilities.
Wish me luck, dear readers. I have a dark day ahead.
Yours in trembling apprehension,