12/22/2025
Oi, Sir Santa,
It’s me, Spud.
Yeah, that Spud. The old fella ’round the Ranch who’s still got plenty of spark, even if me body’s fallin’ apart like an old barrow wheel left out in the rain.
So here’s the deal, mate: I’m pushin’ 27 now and when the vet popped by last time, they counted me teeth, all 10 of ’em. Ten! Honestly, Santa, I’ve seen more teeth on a worn out curry comb. Might as well be gnawin’ me dinner with me gums these days. Lucky for me, Kris fixes up these posh mashes twice a day so I can keep me figure lookin’ somewhat presentable. (Can’t be lettin’ the ladies think I’ve completely gone to seed, eh?)
And just to keep life interestin’, I’ve also got a stage 5 heart murmur, advanced arthritis in my left foot and breathing problems, proper dramatic stuff. I’m meant to “take it easy” whatever that means. Try tellin’ that to the young ones in our house. Little chaos gremlins drag me all over the Ranch like I’m some washed-up footie coach they’re tryin’ to impress. I do me best to keep up, but blimey, they move like they’ve got rockets strapped to their hooves.
So I thought, “Oi, Spud you’d better write to the big jolly geezer himself.”
Sir Santa, reckon you could toss an extra bag or two of me special grain onto the sleigh this year? Maybe a bottle of Previcox too? Or maybe one of your lovely helpers might fancy helpin’ me out each month? This old ticker, wheezy lungs, gimpy leg and me pathetic excuse for teeth could use all the support they can get.
Right then.
Cheers, Santa.
Loads of love and a big ol’ head-butt of affection,
Spud
https://www.secondchancecheekyeranch.com/sponsor/spud