Dear diary
I am currently in hiding, ashamed to set a hoof out of my stable for fear of being a laughing stock, shunned like a leper for the damage that evil Herman the German needle man has inflicted upon my delicate body. To be perfectly frank it’s so bad the only thing I’m likely to pull between now and old age is a muscle. I am doomed.
The horrific life changing experience started last Friday when Herman the German came to re-inject my super-charged blood back into my feet. I was quite looking forward to the idea and since it had been referred to as IRAP repeatedly, I did assume that Herman would also be providing musical support.
Sadly I was wrong…
With a cunning sleight of hand a fox pickpocket would be proud of, he shoved yet another needle in my neck and “poof!” I was in la-la land with tweetie pie doing fly-bys around my now drooping ears. Oh and for the record, mother posting pictures of me in my drugged-up state all over my Facebook page is tantamount to animal cruelty…
While I was away with the fairies, and their fairy ponies, he attacked (and there is NO other word for it) my feathers — my pride and joy — with a lawnmower. There is no other explanation for how he could have made such a mess. I have two patches on my front legs that resemble landing strips for cargo planes. Little green aliens making crop circles would have made a neater job — maybe ET is available for today’s repeat performance? Mother did try to explain how important it was that my legs were clean and free from anything that could cause infection, but seriously, I think she’s just part of the conspiracy.
I personally now think her and Herman are secretly founder members of the AFF (Anti-feathers Front) and are waging their own private campaign to make all us special individuals, gifted with the power of feather, look like a bog-standard dumb blood.
Anyway after the horror of feather-gate, Herman then scrubbed me within an inch of my life (and to be honest his as well), shoved needles in my feet and then trussed me up in so many bandages, I looked like a mummy. Oh and did I mention I had one purple leg and one green leg? I didn’t even get matchy-matchy. The shame.
My disgust re the lack of co-ordination may have led to me taking matters into my own hooves and removing one of the bandages within an hour or so of mother leaving. Which may have led to a phone call from the boss lady to my now highly-irate mother. Which might have led to the boss lady having to re-truss me up in a nice blue bandage from my first aid kit, that at least appealed slightly more to my macho side.
I won’t repeat mother’s language but it definitely suggested my parentage was questionable, I was large in structure and my career in financial services continues…
Needless to say, I wasn’t in the good books long before I spent the weekend kicking the door, throwing buckets at people and generally displaying my annoyance at being confined to barracks. Why I have to stay in for 48hrs after being injected with super-charged blood I don’t know — maybe I will mutate into something green and scary if I don’t stay inside? That sounds like great fun!
Anyway much to my horror we do the whole thing again today, with mother threatening both my life and my Hovis sausage if I pull any more bandages off. And she’s refused to rap “ice ice Hovis”.
Life sucks.
Yours sulkily
Hovis
