It took me a while to realise that the voice shouting out “Claire…… the chicken!…. Claire! Claire!” wasn’t part of a wacky dream (been having a lot of those lately but we won’t go there), someone really was calling me out of my sleep about a chicken, not my usual wake up call.

The voice was most insistant and now I could also hear the frantic squawking of a terrified chicken. I leapt out of bed and stuck my head out of the window, to see a large black and white chicken trying to dodge all six dogs and a young man standing at the gate shouting “Claire!…….the chicken!”

Unfortunately the chicken, having managed to fly over the wall to get into the garden, was in too much of a panic to do the reverse to get out, instead it took off up the garden with the dogs in pursuit. They obviously thought it was a fast food delivery, though sadly not fast enough to get away from them.

I chased outside but by the time I got out there our Alsatian, Skahpolo, had the squawking chicken in his mouth. I made a grab for the dog but he shot away and so we began a mad dash about the garden, me in my nightie, all the other dogs hot on our heels and the young man at the gate being thoroughly entertained by the spectacle.

Once more we ran round the garden then Skahpolo dived into the house, running into my bedroom where I finally managed to get the chicken off him, feathers flying. Unfortunately the chicken was past it.

The chicken belonged to my mother in law and the young man at the gate took it back to her where the poor thing was made into stew for lunch.

Now for the next bit of my morning.

Some time back I rather unintentionally became a horse owner, a beautiful chap I called Mister. Although I’ve had riding lessons on and off over the years, I’ve never been solely responsible for a horses care, especially not a beast that had been half-starved and mistreated. It has taken some time to get him back into a better state, as we treat one condition after the other but he is lovely and I call him Mister.

Now if you’re a bit squeamish, especially if you’re a man, you might find the following a bit ewww! So here’s a photo of the two protagonists of today’s post for you to look at while you decide whether to read on or not.

Skahpolo and Mister

Skahpolo and Mister

Still with me! Good on with the story.

The other day Mister was especially pleased to see me and out came his willy (sheath) and a most manky looking thing it was, like something that had died and been left out in the sun, all yellow and black with bits of skin peeling off*. I’m not one for going around looking at horse’s penises but I was pretty sure that the ones I have seen did not look like that.

I did a bit of a search on the internet and found that horses need their privates to be washed, oh now doesn’t that sound like fun! (though I do wonder how they manage in the wild).

I mentioned Mister’s manky looking number to my father in law, he said all horses round here are like that, obviously cleaning a horse’s privates is not something he thinks is necessary but then I have come to realise over the last few months that as much as I like and respect my father in law, he has maybe a bit less horse know how, than I had originally thought.

So a bit more searching on the internet and I found a well written, informative and witty article by Patricia Harris on how to go about the job, if you need to know or just feel like a laugh, check it out here, the article is in two parts, Patricia Harris’s piece is part 2.

I have to admit I’ve been putting the job off for a bit but I had Mister in the garden this morning and so decided today was the day. I explained to my son what I was going to do, I needed him to hold Mister’s head for me as I had absolutely no idea how the horse would react to having me fiddling about down there and I’d had enough of chasing animals around the garden for one day.

I donned rubber gloves and had a quick chat with Mister to explain the process, thankfully he was content munching on the small amount of feed I put down for him and even stuck his willy out, which certainly made the process easier, if no less gross. Trying not to think too much about just what I was washing, I got on with the job in hand (ha ha) and soon had all this gunky, smelly stuff falling away. It didn’t take too long to reveal the shiny pink and black, normal looking skin hiding under all that revolting crust. Having given him a final rinse, Mister tested his squeaky clean willy, pulling it in and out a few times, I think he approved.

It was only later that I realised I’d forgotten to check for the bean (a hard lump of smegma that is inside the penis and has to be removed) so I will have to do the whole process again at some point in the not too distant future, the process wasn’t as bad as I’d feared it would be but repeating it is still not something I’m particularly looking forward to.

* It wasn’t skin but, as I later found out, dried smegma, perfectly disgusting.