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Floss, who’s smart enough to write a blog, arranged to have the photo that worried her so much deleted – and her blog inspired ‘her boss’ to delete a few kilograms.

Dear Readers,

I’ve recently lived through a stressful time worrying myself into knots because I was sure the farmer’s death wish would come true. My first inkling he had death wish came when I saw him photograph my boss’s rear end when she was leaning over helping herself to Christmas pudding, brandy butter, custard and cream. Her tight jeans weren’t flattering and her hindquarters were smack in the middle of the photo.

I slinked underneath one of our guests’ cars and fretted. I’ve got a widening girth myself and hate it when my boss comments. Like her, I’m a bit of a foodie. Is it my fault bags of milk powder are left open when the calves are being fed? Is it my fault I like licking calf poo? Is it my fault my mate Kate is such a fusspot I sometimes nick her food? Is it my fault . . . The list goes on and the answer is always no.

I will concede to being a bad dog for sneaking to the manager’s house and scoffing the meat he’d left defrosting for his three dogs. The farmer caught me twice and I’ll never confess how many times I got away with it.

What would the boss do when she saw the photo? Almost a week passed before the inevitable moment. I was peering through the window when she downloaded the photo and I wanted to be sick. Normally I’d chew a few blades of grass, but at this moment grass was not needed.

Acid rose from my gut as she marched to the living area where the farmer watched telly. I raced to another window to watch and listen.

“There’s a photo of me at that lunch we had,” said my boss. “My bum’s smack in the middle of the photo and it looks enormous.”

“I’ve never said your bum looks big,” said the farmer (and here’s where I thought his death wish would come true) “because you’ve never asked, ‘Does my bum look big in this?’”

Then (danger, danger, I could barely breathe) he laughed . . . at his own sick, sick joke. The boss’s face went a funny shade of red. “That’s not funny,” she said as she stomped across the kitchen. Then she stopped, “Well, it is funny, but it’s not funny.”

Can you make sense of that? I couldn’t. Was she suffering from an attack of Christmas spirit?

Somehow I knew his life had been spared – until he asked: “How heavy are you?”

Danger! Danger! Rising bile! No grass needed!

“Four kilos heavier than when I met you,” she said with a sigh.

She had watery soup for dinner then a few days later bought jeans that are the same style as her old, ripped favourites. She couldn’t believe it when size nines fitted her rounded haunches because she knows and I know she’s really size twelve.

I was confused when she left the enormous ‘size nine’ stickers on the jeans then wrapped them in Christmas paper – until I saw the gift tag. The farmer gave them to her on Christmas Day.

Good luck with working off the excesses of the silly season. Your slightly fat friend, Floss.