Thank You

I'm always wary of making rash statements because they often come back to bite you, like a guinea pig whose sprig of basil you have just snatched from under his twitching nose.  Nevertheless I must say this.  My staff are the luckiest humans on the earthly side of the Rainbow Bridge.  My female staff's breast tumour was spotted by an ultra vigilant GP only a couple of weeks after her biennial scan had given her the all clear.  Imagine how things might have turned out if the thing had been left to fester in her boob for another two years.  Quite honestly I shudder to think.  My staff's good luck then continued when the lumpectomy (surgical removal of the tumour) went smoothly and all the tests showed that there had been no spread to her lymph nodes, brain, bones or anywhere else.  They were made to wait for the results of the ER/HER2 test which came back as ER positive and HER2 negative whatever that means.  I guess the main thing is that it is the result we wanted and my female staff now only has to undergo a course of radiotherapy beginning in a few weeks time.  After that my staff have been assured by the surgeon that she will have no greater risk of contracting another cancer than any other member of the population and the chances of the original cancer recurring are nil.

My staff have other reasons to feel lucky too, apart from being fortunate enough to be chosen to take care of four guinea pigs.  They enjoy the umbrella of protection that I am able to afford them from my exalted position in Piggy Paradise.  I have taken it upon myself to see to it that nothing truly nasty ever happens to them, although there is nothing I can do to alleviate the embarrassment they suffer being governed by Prime Minister Abbott.  They just have to wait until the next General Election for the silly bugger to be voted out.  The "Big Guy Upstairs" (No not Clive Palmer.) has decreed that we deceased cavies are not allowed to interfere with the democratic process on earth, no matter how tempted we might be.  Most of all they are fortunate to have so many amazing Twitter friends and blog readers who have taken time out of their own busy lives and have forgotten their own troubles long enough to send my female staff positive thoughts, healing wishes and a steady stream of prayers.  My staff and I really, sincerely want to thank you all from the heart of our bottoms or whatever the human equivalent of that well known guinea pig saying is.  THANK YOU.

And so life continues; my female staff's operation wounds are healing beautifully, though she has been complaining that it feels as though she has a large lump in her armpit from where they removed the lymph nodes.  However, on closer inspection the lump turned out to be Baci.  She'd forgotten that she'd hid him there to smuggle him into the hospital because she couldn't bear to be without a piggy for a night.  Fortunately being a resourceful piggy Baci had had the good sense to hide amongst the hospital bed sheets when they come to take her to the operating theatre.  Then when she was returned and plonked onto the bed by the nurse in an even dopier state than usual he snuggled back into her armpit again.  A couple of days later when the "lump" had failed to improve she decided to go to her GP for his opinion on the lump.  My male staff thought he'd better attend too to show his concern for his darling spouse, and anyway it was her turn to buy the coffee and cake afterwards.

They were ushered into the doctor's room where they were invited to sit.  "Good morning." He said, ominously snapping on a pair of rubber gloves.  "How can I help today?"
 "Well," said my female staff. "Ive just had some lymph nodes removed and now I have this great big ugly lump."
 "Oh dear." Said the doctors looking at my male staff. "I see what you mean, but I'm really not sure I can help you with that."
 "No, not that lump. I know there's nothing anyone can do about that.  I have another ugly lump under my arm since the surgery and every time I put my bra on over it it squeaks."
 "Hmmmm" said the doctor rubbing his chin. "You'd better let me see."
Off came her blouse, up went her arm and there, trapped under her bra strap was Baci, his back legs and dangly bits hanging inelegantly beneath the strap and his head and front feet poking out from above it.
 "Wheek!" He exclaimed.
The doctor took a sharp backward step, then composed himself.
 "Ah yes," he said. "It's nothing to worry about. It's just a mole."

BACI'S BALONEY

Eckskyoose me, but I've never bean so insulterated in my intyre life. Stoopid dokter calling me a moal! Do I look like a moal to yoo? Well, do I? No of coarse I don't.  Moals are silly blak miopyc  myapick  blind fings wot liv underground and like eet slugs and beatles and werms and rooin peepuls lorns and stuff.  Anyway I wuz like reely pleezed that I coodunt restrayn myself from byting the iddyott dokter wen he tried to get me owt from under Uncal Billy's femail staff's arm.