Wednesday 8 November 2006

I intended to post this last night, but was far too traumatised. The Good Ship Jasper is sailing into troubled waters, with my partner at the helm.

I was bundled off to the vets last evening (Wednesday), for my annual booster vaccinations. There had also been a resumption of hostilities around Little Jasper - the infection thought conquered had returned with a vengeance. I had once again to lie on my back while a vet - this time a female: the indignity! - prodded my privates. After this act of humiliation the vet announced that the rejuvenated infection was caused by me fiddling with myself too much. And the reason for my fiddling? My botty glands were full. Before I could utter even a squeak of protest, the fingers were gloved, lubricated and up my bottom quicker than you could say "involuntary sphincter constriction".

As if this wasn't enough, the vet then pronounced me to be "overweight", as if there ever COULD be too much of me in this world. She told my partner that I must be placed on a strict diet, or I will suffer in later life. Huh. My partner is going to tell Maisie today, and there will be an end of the delicious meaty lunches that Maisie prepares for me. Not to mention the rich tea biscuits. My partner's father always used to slip me a yoghurt when my partner wasn't looking, but that stopped last night. My partner was always very frugal in her feeding of me, and I rely upon these extras from my allies for my very survival. How will I exist? Dear blog, you could be witnessing the Last Days of Jasper on this Earth.

I tried to convince my partner that I would die as a result of these cruel new measures but she laughed (callously, in my opinion) and called me "a bit of a chubber". Remember me in your prayers.

The other development yesterday (not that anything really matters besides my impending starvation) was that my partner has been asked to take over the main female part in the play for which she was prompting. She agreed, so this gives her two weeks to learn an incredible amount of script. Fortunately her character is bedridden, so no movement will need to be learned. She seemed quite pleased about this, until it struck her that it will affect her reunion with BC. She will have to go into make-up (my partner is a young lady who will now be portraying an eighty-one year-old) before he arrives and he could well depart before she has finished removing it and reapplying her own (though she doesn't need any to make her more appealing in my view, diet or no diet). So her prospect is shadowed by frustrated irritation now. And it blo*dy well serves her right.

Now, I must away. I am going out with my partner and Maisie for a pub lunch (grrrowwl - a cruel irony on the first day of my diet) and then a nice walk through the woods that we visited last week. Ah, joy. Perhaps I can catch a fat pheasant and scoff it all before my partner rumbles me.

Good day.