Thank goodness. I am recovered enough to contemplate another blog entry. I certainly have been very poorly indeed. But thankfully all that now remains is a small hole in my leg, a surrounding patch of slowly re-growing fur and an occasional stiff limp. I have not seen my assailants since the attack. If they are sensible, they will have fled the county.
I am not sure how to pass off the scar to potential new lady-friends. It would have been better on my shoulder or flank but, as it is on my thigh, it looks less impressive. I think I will tell the fair ones that I got it while saving a tiny infant from a crazed alligator in the bread aisle at Sainsbury's. That should do the trick. I am, at least, hugely thankful that no nerves were severed. Had that happened, I would have had a permanent disability, but I was spared and for that, I am grateful.
My partner has been most kind, and obtained some roast chicken slices to ease the passage of my two sets of tablets. I have been too weak to repay her kindness and, for some time, could do nothing but lie on the bed. My partner thoughtfully kept the window open, that fresh air might speed my recovery. However, she also left the curtains parted a little and I must admit that that made me somewhat nervous. Obviously crowds must have assembled outside my window, to maintain a vigil for my recovery. They kept a respectful silence, as I heard no sound whatsoever from the hordes, but I was very concerned that some may have tried to scale the walls, to take a sneaky glance at the bed where Jasper lays his head. Some, less respectful, folk may even have tried to reach in to scavenge a prized souvenir - a discarded hair; claw fragment; or a spent whisker. But none of these indignities occurred.
I am extremely grateful for the many messages of support and goodwill that I received during my incapacity. They certainly lifted my spirits and bolstered my recovery. One friend offered the suggestion that perhaps my attackers had been engaged by the Buzzard. Sad though it is to say, I believe he may be right. For, shortly before my assault, the hoary old scavenger and I had had words.
'Twas at Abbotstone, as ever, in the big rabbit field. I was examining the progress of a large black beetle, when I became aware that I, myself, was being closely watched. I looked up and there sat the Buzzard on a low branch, with an abysmally terrifying look upon his face. It was an horrific combination of gurning and an hellish grimace. It was only after several moments' consideration that I realised that he was pretending to smile at me.
"Good evening, my friend." he said. "I'm not your friend." I returned, my gaze fixed on the shiny beetle. Actually, the beetle had scuttled away, but staring at the bare earth was infinitely preferable than attending to the Buzzard's forced charm.
"Whyever not?" he simpered. "Because you want to eat me." I replied. I had not forgotten his persistent attempts on my life. Including how he nearly tricked me into marinading myself in Honey and Mustard dressing.
"Good heavens, no." he chuckled "That was just larks - a lad's joke between friends. Pay it no heed. I have a proposition for you my friend." I glanced up with some suspicion. What was this? Was he offering a gift, a token, or some sort of horrific sexual alliance between us? I shuddered at the thought and started to trot away. "Stay, friend!" called the Buzzard, "At least hear me out." I sighed and turned around. And then the Buzzard began to outline both his fiendish plan and my role in it...
But before I go into the plot in its shocking entirety, I feel that the world's education has been neglected long enough. No more! Here, for your historical edification, is Jasper's Famous People of England - Part 5: