Dear Diary
Well I have good news and bad news following Herman the German’s visit last week to assess my lameness following nearly three months off.
The good news is I’m much better. The bad news is he recommended mum was humanely put to sleep as she is beyond medical help. Allow me to tell the tale…
Friday morning saw mother arrive and fetch me in from the field, where upon she set about attempting to brush me — I say “attempt” because mother isn’t great with her right hand — her left-handed brushing leaves a LOT to be desired. By the time she’d finished, I looked like a startled bog brush with an Elvis style comb-over-slash-quiff and my feathers were fluffy enough to make poodles green with envy. I was not amused.
I was briefly saved by the arrival of the Ginger Fly-trap’s mother until she decided to snitch on me and told mum about my amazing romantic interlude with ginge herself which had occurred midweek. I had been happily munching on my hay when I heard a kerfuffle in the walk way and saw Ginger Fly-trap get loose from her headcollar, detach herself from where her mother had tied her up and sashay down the aisle towards me. And when I say “sashay” I mean she was working it like a Las Vegas call girl. I refute any suggestion my mouth was open so far and for so long that I nearly swallowed our resident blackbird. I am just as much an admirer of the fine female form as the next gelding…
Anyway she took advantage of my admiration to shove her tongue down my throat, nibble my neck, munch on my moustache and generally use my body for her own amusement. Being the innocent equine I am, I did try to fend off her advances — well that’s what I told mother. When she started spraying, I did start to fear for my life and had visions of being pinned to my haynet while she tried to make Hovis mini-loaves but her mother had lucky realised she was missing and came to retrieve her. I didn’t know whether to be gutted or grateful — she is one scarily forceful mare. I was a mere boy toy to her but since she’ll most likely be back trying to kill me again by next week I am prepared to suffer this indignity!
Anyway back to Herman’s visit. He arrived, took one look at mother’s plaster-casted right wrist, sniggered and asked who he was doing the lameness test on. I won’t repeat mother’s language but it was very rude and despite English being Herman’s second language I think he got the drift loud and clear…
I was led outside and mother asked me to walk up the drive so Herman could watch me. I figured he’d prefer to see me being a tad more athletic so I set off at a brisk trot, dragging mother in my wake. Apparently, Herman took this as a sign that my mother is incompetent and did ask if she’d broken her ears or hadn’t ridden for that long she didn’t understand what a trot was. It was pretty hard to determine mother’s reply, so clenched were her teeth, but I think she implied that I was large, feathered and worked in financial services? I took pity on her and walked back to see Herman who then being a contrary so-and-so wanted me to trot.
I decided he needed to be reminded that I was my own man so I refused to get out of walk despite mother’s rather insistent pulling (left-handed I hasten to add). After much huffing, puffing and a LOT of rude words, mum coaxed me into a rather slow motion trot down the drive — so I decided that upon turning round we ought to liven things up a tad and canter back. Herman was killing himself laughing at mum being dragged in my wake until he had to dive out of the way to avoid being mowed down. Apparently playing chicken with three-quarter tonne of rampaging Destroyer is not high on his list of things to do before he dies…
After more trotting in tiny circles on concrete, it was agreed I looked a LOT better but still not 100% on my off-fore. I was alarmed that this could trigger mother to have a meltdown but she did remain quite composed as Herman explained the options. The long and short of which was that I’m going to have something called iRAP — which bothers me because I am not wanting to wear my rug low on my bum, say “yo” a lot and refer to everyone as “bruvva”. Mum did say I’m less Vanilla Ice and more “chocolate chip” but this is from the woman with a pink Lickit on her arm and a vet’s note saying she’s only fit for the knacker’s yard.
So Herman is coming back to steal a load of blood tonight and then they will try to clone me and inject the new me into my foot. I’m only a horse but I’m so down with all this biochemistry stuff. Mum did go a tad white at the news of the price tag but after being assured this was used on American football players, I figure it’s the least an athlete of my status deserves. Mother has two kidneys — she can always sell one…
Talking of athletes, my friend Carl has been in the news this week with wildly exaggerated claims of his retirement — Carl mate, if you need any advice on how to handle the press you just come and see me. I am a pro at media management as well as those who make a mountain out of a molehill — you did meet my mother right?!
Anyway, while I wait to advise Carl, I’m off to practise my rapping and pray that Ginger Fly-trap fancies round two of flirt and squirt.
Laters
Hovis
My three books Hovis’ Friday diary: From the beginning, Hovis’ Friday diary: The year of the Destroyer and Hovis’ Friday diary: Fifty Tastes of Hay are available to buy from the gift shop at www.bransbyhorses.co.uk with 100% of the proceeds from the sale going to the charity.
