Dear Diary
Well what a week again! I have been abused by Herman the German, sprayed funny colours, refused to be allowed out by mother — all in all, I feel I am a worse rescue case than the horses my books raise money for!
Last Friday all was fine, I was out in my field eating, moseying about and just generally being me. Mother’s car came down the drive and she and her mini-me jumped out and hurried down to get me. Intrigued by what they wanted, I foolishly allowed myself to be caught and headed to the stables where Herman was setting up what looking like a small stand selling torture items.
If I didn’t fear for the young innocent ears of mini-mother listening to the tirade of abuse mother would have sent my way if I’d have tried — I would have turned tail and run at that point. But I didn’t. Silly me…
One man hug and a neck slap later from Herman and I was in ‘la-la land’. That man’s sleight of hand is so impressive he could have been a magician. I thought he was cuddling me not drugging me out my tiny Irish mind. I was so stoned, I swear Tweety Pie was circling my head like a small yellow member of the Red Arrows — there was certainly more than one of him!
It’s fair to say I don’t remember a lot after that but when I woke up, I had a large bandage on my leg and smelt like a disinfected surgery. An alarming array of needles and surgical gloves were being put away while Herman spent a lot of time apologising. I’m trying not to think about what he was apologising for to be honest…
Mum looked very worried and did a lot of cuddling so I was half expecting a priest to come and do last rites but since mother is a drama queen, it’s likely it was never that serious. How someone so tough can be such a marshmallow over me is a mystery?
Other than mother not letting me have any hay for HOURS after Herman had gone, I felt fine — so all in all wasn’t too bothered. Until the next day. When mother wouldn’t let me go out.
AT ALL.
I was seriously miffed and so may have possibly kicked the door once or twice. Possibly with the bandaged foot. Mother’s language was as usual eye-wateringly lurid with several threats made to both life and limb if I didn’t desist from door kicking immediately. She is such a killjoy.
She did take me out for a wander and a nibble of grass that wouldn’t have kept an anorexic mouse alive, before shoving me back in my stable, threatening me with death if I kicked my door again and leaving.
I sulked.
No one noticed…
She did reappear the next day, questioned my parentage after seeing the attempts I had made to remove the bandage around my leg, before removing it herself. I looked down interested to see what exactly Herman had done to me while I was away with the fairies and promptly nearly DIED. My previously pristine white feathers were now a girlie purple! I am busy praying that since I am now allowed out and it’s been raining that the purple washes off soon — I looked like a furry Ribena Berry.
Mum took me for a walk out on Sunday and I suddenly found my foot wasn’t hurting as much as it had been. Therefore, I may have been full of bounce and joie de vie. I dispute mum’s claims on my Facebook that I piaffed or half-passed down the lane — that is a) girlie and b) scarily close to stressage. I may have, possibly, sort of manly stomped down the drive, stopping to snatch grass before dragging mum further. All I do know is my foot may feel better but I’m now deaf after mother spent the entire time screaming “WALK!!! Do you KNOW how much that foot has just cost me?!”
Anyway apparently, I am allowed to be out and doing walking exercise until Herman comes in another week and repeats the whole thing with my other foot. I despair completely of what I am going to do if that purple dye doesn’t come off — I am NOT going to Your Horse is Alive with purple legs…
Yours colourfully
Hovis
