I hate people who are cruel to animals; I would like to have them tortured and then boiled alive. I would find their graves and urinate on them; I would then dig up their corpses and torture them all over again.
Of course, I would prefer it if I could prevent them from inflicting any cruelty to begin with but the fact that I am powerless to do so causes me almost as much anguish as the suffering such evil individuals induce in the first place.
There are a lot of horses in the fields around here and as far as I am concerned, they should all be stabled by now: it’s winter – the days are short and it’s very cold. Sadly, many of them are not.
A big piebald shire-type horse that Audrey is fond of – we christened him Homer because he seems a little lacking in basic intelligence – is looking very thin and sickly at the moment. I complained to the RSPCA in August when I noticed that water had not been provided for him. None ever was. No one seems to know who owns him, either. Perhaps I was being naïve and such creatures do not require aquatic refreshment during the hot summer months.
I do not know what to do again in this instance. Apart from anything else, Homer seems to be very cold. He shivers. We often bring him carrots and apples but I fancy another call to the RSPCA is in order as I can think of no other recourse; I can hardly take the fellow home with me, can I?
We said hello to him at eight this morning and as I was stroking his face he let out a big bellowing whinny and stamped his front hooves at us before pushing angrily on the flimsy wire fence that separated us as if to say, ‘Why aren’t you helping me?’
He’s very big, even for a horse, and it quite frightened the both of us.
When we returned to the house, I breathed a sigh of relief and complained to Audrey that my stomach was aching – the reason being that’s where my testicles were hiding.