I was going to entertain you with more haiku today, but something terrible has happened. I need your support.
Today was supposed to be a regular spa day—a nice little hoofie trim, a fresh mane roach, an ear massage, and a handful of sunflower seeds (for shine). Instead of merely taking care of my beauty routine, however, FarmWife spent a full hour in contemplation of and attention to my overall physique. The upshot? A revision of my condition from Plump to Obese. (Her actual words, upon removing my blanket for the first time in a few days, were "Oh my God! You've ballooned!") She has decided that my fatness has become a health risk, and has resolved to exercise me as often as possible.
It gets dark at 4:30. Her husband gets home at 5:30. She has small children and no sitter.
This, my friends, means that I will end up being longed. Longed at the end of a stupid, smelly old rope. Forced to walk and trot in stupid, boring, awful circles. Around and around and around.
FarmWife doesn't particularly like longing me, but she feels forced. I assured her that there is simply more of me to love, but she won't hear a word of it. She says I must get fit, and that if I can get a little extra exercise during the week it will mean all the more fun for us when we DO get out on the trail.
The worst of it? She has mentioned reducing my hay to 8 pounds a day, which in my opinion is about enough to sustain an average guinea pig.
Woe is me.
Ears to you,
p.s. FW knows that 8 pounds of hay a day is not much at all, and she doesn't want you to think that she would ever underfeed hay. It's important, she realizes, for gut function and for boredom control. She feels quite unsure as to how to make me thinner, though, as I am such a wonderfully easy keeper. She resolves to take it easy on the treats, though I already get less than a half a cup of various yummy things (apples, carrots, alfalfa pellets, or sunflower seeds as training treats) on any given day. She welcomes advice.