Dear diary,
Thank the Lord for aunty H — now there are five words I never thought I would write together in a sentence; but seriously I think I might love that woman a little bit.
Dolly, as you all know, is the subject of my affections but is one seriously high maintenance mare (so is her mother so it’s clearly something that runs in the family) and as such sulks if she gets too cold or wet.
Now the uncharitable among us might say that the girl has enough natural insulation to survive naked in Nebraska but heh what can I say? I like my girls curvy.
>>> Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘The woman upstairs had some sort of brain fart’
Anyway back to my point. Due to the woman upstairs still having some sort of mental breakdown and sending us four seasons in four days, Aunty H took the executive decision that Dolly, the new small orange prancy dude and I shouldn’t yet be “turned out 24/7” or as I like to call it “be made homeless”. Mum was away so Aunty H and the boss lady collude as to what should happen to me and I go along with it like flotsam in a sea of daft female ideas. To be fair I liked this idea. I liked it a lot.
Mother is back now though so how much longer I shall cling to my big soft bed and dry warm stable at night I have no idea. She is a witch after all.
In other news, I continue to be an angel for Aunty Emily in the vain hope that I can convince her to let us actually leave the ground. She apparently likes showjumping and let’s face it, no one showjumps the way I do. I am like Zebedee in leg warmers, a more muscular manly Milton, less Shutterfly and more shutter-how-high — I am simply awesome.
>>> Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘About as trustworthy as a ginger thoroughbred mare’
Mum has warned her I get a little “over-excited” and has offered to be her “ground girl” the first time she jumps me. I’d rather she didn’t because let’s face, it mother has seen every trick I have in my little black book and will tell Aunty Emily boring things like how to slow me down, make me jump at her speed and not mine and boringly make us do low grid work first to make me listen.
Low grids are like asking a Usain Bolt to run the three-legged race at the local school fête — simply insulting to an athlete of my ability. I have feathers which clearly means God meant me to FLY. And you don’t fly over 60cm jumps when you’re my size — you step over them. Which is boring. So hopefully Aunty Emily will decline mother’s offer, bring her own ground girl and I can actually JUMP something rather than hop over something that’s so low even mother could hurdle it. Mind you with her lack of athletic ability that might be an event worth selling tickets to…
>>> Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘It was like Swan Lake only the budget version — pigeon puddle’
In final horrifying news I want to lodge a formal complaint to the broadcasting authorities about mother showing a video on my Facebook pages of mini-mother and I having a moment. Now to be fair mini-mother and I had been having a cuddle long before mother got her phone out. Mini-mother thought mother was taking a photo but she was actually videoing us — sadly complete with sound. I’m not sure why the world needed to know that mini-mother calls me “hovey-wovey” but if anyone sees my street cred can they send it back? It was last seen running from the scene of the crime screaming loudly..
I love my life. No really, I do.
Laters,
Hovis
