Not the happiest of times.

First it was raining at a time when it ought to have been sunny, and then my winky started to hurt. Then my hock got big and FarmWife refused to believe that it was all her imagination. Then I got put on a diet, and taken to Dr.—, who tortured me to within an inch of my life AND messed with my winky, which by the way feels fabulous today (thanks for asking). Now I am not allowed to summit precipitous slopes for at least two more weeks, and FarmWife has had to slather my hock with disgusting medicine. This medicine transpires through my hock and straight to my mouth, where it infuses my breath with the odor of rotten garlic and dead things. Meanwhile, FarmWife has left me and gone to work, where she spends Saturdays sitting inside earning money. Unfortunately, it is only a small amount of money and not nearly enough to pay for the assassination of Dr.— which she probably would not be in support of anyway.She actually likes that guy.

Tomorrow I am going to pull myself together and put on a brave face—perhaps write One Dozen Reasons Why it is Excellent to be a Mule—but today I am going to cry into my trough. Pity Party, My Place, Now. You're all invited.

Yours dejectedly,
Fenway

image from http://vi.sualize.us/view/chayenne/aedd22f0ed310ef5d842e0b42d1b1f0c/

(We will have original photography again tomorrow . . . in the meantime, please accept the stock images and our apologies while we sort out some internet connectivity problems!)