I have been likened to many things in my devil-may-care life to date. Some I will not commit to your scrutiny for fear it might taint your kind benevolence towards me. Others I will reluctantly reveal after a few pints of mind relaxing ale. This clever beverage combines the magical properties of loosening one’s tongue very nicely, in conjunction with the level of regard within which you are being held by the listener(s). The idea is that you will chirrup delightedly at me, irrespective of whatever nefarious deed I have alluded to, or confessed. You will, in conclusion, find me dangerously enthralling and in no way morally flawed or corrupt. At all. Today’s likening however fits into none of these categories. Today, I have been likened to a land bat. A bat, that to all intents and purposes, is confined to ground level. Is that a thing? This has been commented on due to the unaccustomed weathery heat we are experiencing. It cramps my desire to leap about like a balletic gazelle, trotting and scampering about merrily. Instead, I skulk and roam around with a methodical, slow creep. Some may say, a prowl. This way I can conserve my energy until I need it. A Spindle is always prepared for anything. Much like a boy scout but I do not need a woggle to assert my authority. *Nods head with conviction.

It is as I said, very hot at the moment. I am not that keen on the heat as I am unable to seductively shimmy off my sumptuous fur coat. I have recently shed quite a quantity of fluff and Spindle dander which I think of as a gift to the household. Inside cavity wall/room filling perhaps? Anyway, to try and combat this, Hector has surprised me with an unexpected and useful erection in the garden. We have a gazebo! It is splendid. I can set up camp and survey my land whilst idling comfortably in the shade. If I reach my head out a fraction to the right, there is water in a bowl for me. If I survey the area to my left, there is piggy pig, my favourite shoe to nibble on and an emergency snack incase my blood sugars dip perilously. The tiny terror has joined me under this shaded haven, and is reclined, sketching and planning the next furtive rummage around her imagination. Hector has been seen striding about, inspecting all corners and nooks of the garden. He patrols very much like me on a squirrel/rabbit recce, but he wears his beloved patrolling hat and has an expression of deep thought. He is in his element. Deep ponderence. It is his thing.

It really was very relaxing, very relaxing indeed. That is until a grey feline fluff ball slinked/slunk/whatever, under the back gate onto my land. The very nerve of it. I must admit that it didn’t register at first as I was daydreaming and I stared at it in that unseeing way that daydreamers do. It spotted me and scarpered. It flew (not literally) over the garden and shot through the iron gate that is supposed to stop me escaping into the field. I was, as is the hound way, overtaken by the chase. My prey drive is, as with any self respecting sighthound, finely honed and as taut as Mrs Petersons knicker elastic. *See previous blog entry ‘The Recalcitrant Sprout’. I couldn’t use Sister Josephine and her under-crackers for the analogy as it would be wildly inaccurate. 

I was not going to let any gate get in my way, which is why I didn’t stop as I made contact with it. There was a high pitched squeal, which turned out to be Hector as he ran towards me. My head had become wedged in the gate, and the gate had been forced open (the wrong way) by my savage and unfettered (yet womanly) strength. Thankfully it did not take long for me to be extricated from my temporary head prison. Another bonus of having a long, pointy head. I am afraid that the cat got away, only because I let it go though…obviously.

I was duly inspected for any gate related injuries, ears pulled this way and that. They were convinced it would be another trip to the vets but I was unscathed. Well, my pride was a little scuffed. I shuffled off to grab a cold beer and to resume my watch. There continued a relaxing afternoon, revelling in the tented glory of the gazebo. My afternoon was only punctuated wth a phone call from Nelson, who is planning a camping trip, of which I was expected to help plan aswell as attend. What could possibly go wrong?