Twisty caught the red-eye back to Obstreperon last night. Her work here, she said, was done. Before she left she implanted a Blame-U-Lator in my lobe (the device will enable her to inject feminist dogma directly into my brain from anywhere in the space-time continuum). Then she rolled up in a ball and had me and Phil bounce her up into the stratosphere. I don’t know if you’ve ever bounced a spinster aunt into a flying saucer, but it takes at least two people and a lonely stretch of highway in the middle of a cloudless night. And a six-pack.
Here’s the note she left for you guys.
So long, and thanks for all the tacos.
Between you and me, I’m kind of relieved. We were starting to finish each others sentences and shit.
So, yeah. Um.
Hey, I know. Some of you — no doubt in an effort to ease an awkward situation — were asking about Maypearl and Bert and the skunks an that. So what the hell, here’s the status of those characters:
My golden retriever Bert, who had an encounter with a skunk a few weeks ago, continues to stink. I don’t notice it myself anymore but visitors to Spinster HQ — there really is a Spinster HQ — can definitely sense the offending molecules. I’d say it takes at least a six weeks for the high stink to wear off of a properly skunked golden retriever, but when in a dampened state that dog’ll be malodorous for months. Unfortunately, Bert swims daily.
On the equine front: Maypearl and my old mare Stella, who used to be paddockmates, had a power struggle, and Stella lost. Stella sustained some soft tissue injuries, which was crummy. So she and Maypearl got a divorce forthwith, and now everything’s hunky dory. The nasty, domineering aspect of Maypearl’s character appears to be fading since doesn’t have anyone to kick around anymore, so she’s been manifesting an ever-so-much-more-so pleasant attitude toward the humans. For example, every time I pick out her hind feet, she farts and slaps me in the face with her tail. Every time. How cute is that!
And Stella has recovered from her injuries, and we’ve been hanging out more. Trotting gaily hither and thither, etc. But I worry about a strange, intervention-resistant fungus that appears to be working its way up her foreleg, and also about this odd protrusion on her belly which the vet, who can’t diagnose it, calls “the lump-oma.”
It’s almost impossible to keep horses healthy in captivity. They’re not like dogs or sea monkeys. Their systems are astonishingly fragile. It’s a constant struggle to balance diet, fencing, shelter, society, and exercise in such a manner as to keep them from snapping their legs in half or dying from colic or their hooves rotting off or one of them killing another one or them going stir-crazy.
For instance, when Stanley, my giant gelding, crashed through a gate because the fuckwhoozle rednecks next door thought it would be a good idea to shoot off some guns, thus terrifying him, he decimated a heavy wooden fence and completely fucked up both his front legs. He was in bandages from knee to hoof for six weeks, and stuck on stall rest to boot. I would asses the level of difficulty of keeping clean bandages on a 1300 pound stall-bound horse for six weeks, on a scale of 1-10, at about 76. It would be easier to come up with a unified field theory.
Why do I even have horses, given my views on the general wrongitude of animal domination?
Well, I admit it. I like’em. They’re nice to hang around with. But whoa, people do appalling, abusive things to horses — mang, you would seriously puke up your tacos if I told you. Since I can hardly release them into the wild to roam the open range and pose on mountaintops for PBS cameras, I can at least see to it that my three are safe from psychopaths, are getting fed, have vet care, and have a nice place to live. I rescued my two little Arabian mares from a show barn with 200 horses. They weren’t right for the farm’s new breeding program and had totally fallen through the cracks. Nobody wanted them. And the place was a dump. How can anybody have 200 horses? In order to do that right you’d need about 2000 acres, 50 full-time trainers, grooms, muckers, feeders, and people who can fix tractors, and some serious ultra-millionaire action going on.
So another of my little causes is Stop Breeding Horses, all yall fucking idiots. Stop breeding dogs, too. And humans. There are more than enough of all of those to go around.