Rachel Wise.
You know you're having one of "those" days when your poo-fork snaps, mid-scoop.
It was a good poo-fork. I'd been most particular when I bought it, testing it for weight and balance, manoeuvrability and size.
A good poo-fork has to be able to cradle an entire horse-turd from turf to wheelbarrow and not lose any clods on the way.
When you're a busy professional, there's no time to be wasted on double-scooping. I shall miss that poo-fork. It was blue.
The day that began with poo-fork-snappage didn't improve in an awful hurry.
The home-kill man had been for a visit the day before and had done the unspeakable to our pig and taken him away to make into bacon.
Earlier, my husband had removed the short fat mini horses from anywhere near the pig paddock ... I'm sure it was so the home-kill man wouldn't mistake Philip the mini for a porker and process him into pony patties, more than any concern for their delicate sensibilities.
Anyway, the result was the fat minis had spent the day in a big paddock getting fatter and I needed them back in their sparse little paddock.
They knew that.
As soon as they saw me approaching with lead ropes they took off. Philip went left, Oliver went right.
I figured Philip had a few years on Ollie and would tire more quickly so I followed him.
I hadn't factored in the running and dodging experience Philip had packed into those extra years.
Round behind the chook-house he went, over the creek and through the mallow-weed patch, back up behind the bonfire pile and three times round Mindy the sheep, for good measure.
Oliver watched on, munching a mouthful of grass.
So I picked on him instead.
Turns out he's been taking lessons from Philip. Though being younger and a show-off he flung in some fancy bucking as well as a swerve or two.
Eventually they got carried away and ended up in the same corner at the same time in a tangle so I grabbed Philip and stuffed him through the gate, then I tackled Ollie.
But he still had a dodge left in him and as he let it out my fingers got caught in his lead rope and bent in directions fingers shouldn't bend in.
Disaster. The bent fingers were the very ones I need this weekend, for my first big performance playing tamborim with Hawke's Bay Batucada.
I should have iced, compressed and elevated them but I didn't have time because Simon the new kitten was due at the vet's for his vaccination and after chasing ponies I had three minutes to get him into a cat-box and to the vet's.
We were late.
But worse, it turns out Simon's a girl.
I had my suspicions, but with my husband having dubbed the other new kitten Simone, that name was used up so I was hoping I'd been mistaken and Simon could stay Simon.
Nope. She will still be Simon because the name has stuck. But she's a girl Simon.
The vet had another unfortunate revelation to impart. My fault, as I asked the question.
"Is it possible," I asked "for an older dog to develop dementia?"
The vet looked thoughtful and asked for more details.
I told her that Bunnie the chihuahua had recently got lost. In the lounge. And in the paddock, twice.
The vet looked more thoughtful and said "hmmm".
Bunnie had also taken up random barking, yelling "arf!" at the top of her voice at inconvenient times, like 2am. And she'd suddenly taken up chasing cats, at the age of 12.
The vet gave up looking thoughtful and just put it to me straight.
"Yes."
So my dog's got dementia. And Simon's had a gender revelation and I need a new poo-rake.
But my fingers feel a little better today, thank you for asking.