Dear diary,
I need a job. It’s official. Mum is stopping my pocket money due to the events of this week and as such I am unable to afford even so much as a carrot for my ladies. Even a swede from the “ooopps” shelf at the supermarket is beyond my meagre means at the moment.
It all started so well. Aunty Sam rode me out at the weekend and we had a lovely hack accompanied by the prancing pansy. He’s all big-headed at the moment because he jumped well for the RAF last week and won a bridle. If I was actually allowed to go and play at these events I’m sure I’d win things too — so many people have commented that my talents are amazing. Well I think they used the word “unique”, but same difference right?
Anyway Mum then decided to give me another schooling session on Sunday which went relatively painlessly as she was suffering with her hip. I always maintain its ok for our owners to be partially lame, be incapable of passing a flexion test and have rather suspect wind, but god help us if we are? Unfair it is, unfair.
Then on Monday the lady who had come to try me the other week came again and we went out on a hack with the Riverdance reject and Aunt Sarah. Mum was away so Aunt Sarah had been briefed to assess the lady’s ability to ride me safely. All was going well, we’d seen a few tractors of terror and I’d managed to control myself admirably.
We’d just got past one of the farms when we saw another coming towards us on a stretch of road that’s a bit narrow. Aunt Sarah suggested we turn back and wait in the driveway of the farm until the evil thing had passed. Good idea thought I, leading the charge to safety. But no, this tractor of terror had assistance in his dastardly deeds! Ghostly gates! They silently lunged at us, pushing us towards the killer contraption.
Now, Hot Stepper might be a high-stepping nancy who leaps about more than a natterjack toad on a promise, but even he’s not daft. He looked at me, I looked at him, and we turned tail and swiftly retreated towards home. Needless to say after both of our parentages had been called into question (which might be a bit harsh on him, he’s better bred than I am — there’s a play on words begging to be had there but I shall refrain) we were made to go back past the ghostly gates and the tractor and carry on.
All seemed fine again until we came across some pipes on the ground. Now, to be fair, I was daydreaming about Dolly’s derriere and might not have noticed them if it hadn’t been for Hot Stepper jumping about like a gazelle on a pogo stick. But once he commenced his piaffing giraffe impression, I might have joined in… just a tad. It was just to see whether the lady was paying attention you understand — it’s all good for her training.
On arrival back at the yard, Aunt Sarah phoned mum to tell her I’d nearly behaved, but also to snitch that one of my shoes was loose. This might not have been a drama had it not been for the fact that Cool New Shoes Man only put them on last week. Needless to say Mother could be heard breathing fire and brimstone down the phone about the fact she’s not made of money. Too right mother, you would weigh an awful lot less if you were (perhaps a thought to remain in my head and not out loud?). Cool New Shoes Man is coming out to fix my feet, so I’m hoping he might take an IOU and half a mouthful of chaff.
So I leave you with another of my thoughts for the week… Looking to your past is like rein-back — easy to do, but then you still have to get your bum into gear and move forwards.
Yours profoundly,
Hovis
