Dear diary,
I am bursting. I have such exciting news to tell you all, but I can’t tell you yet and the wait is nearly killing me. Well, that and the starvation diet that she-who-must-be-obeyed seems to have me on but that’s a different story…
I’m still on house arrest due to the foot chainsaw massacre of 2018 and the black and white bog brush is still out there, parading around in my field, eating my grass and attempting (thankfully unsuccessfully) to chat up MY girl. Mind you, his halo has slipped a tad as he managed to give mini-mother an impromptu bath and mud treatment on Sunday after he walked into a puddle with her on board then sprang out of it like a cat having a bath — all flying fur and righteous indignation. Unfortunately, mini-mother was not ready for the act of selfishness and was sent flying into a large patch of mud and water. By all accounts he was very contrite, but mini-mother was heard reflecting that I wouldn’t have done this: this is true, when I leap about it’s always to save mother from deadly danger. You have no idea how evil plastic bags can be…
Herman the German Needle Man came out on Friday to have a look at the large excavation in my foot and declared that he was happy and that my flesh had stopped being proud. As I pointed out, how any part of me could possibly be proud when it looks like it lost a fight with a cheese grater is beyond me. Sometimes I do ponder whether he found his vet degree in a cornflakes packet.
Mother was most happy with his visit and was seen beaming. I was less pleased, especially as his dodgy doggie sidekick stole my carrot ball and proceeded to dash up and down the barn with it while I was tied up and thus unable to flick the canine crook into next week. Herman eventually returned it with a slightly sheepish expression and a lot of slobber. The slobber I think was at least the dog’s, but you can never be too sure with him.
I did have an attempt at sneaking out of my stable while he and mother were distracted by talk of the equine flu crisis, but sadly the metal plate made a silent slipping out of my moorings rather difficult and despite her bulk and slightly dopey expression, mother can move faster than Usain Bolt with the trots. My spirits deflated faster than my slobbered-on carrot ball…
I am still wearing more bandages on my foot than a mummified member of parliament with an S&M kink and have more metal work than the love child of Robo-Cop and Dusty Bin. To my untrained eye I can’t see the entrance to the great hole of Hovis is getting any smaller, but I do have to trust that Herman does vaguely know what he’s talking about. Well sometimes anyway…
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On the subject of the equine flu, I am concerned for all fellow geldings and stallions (although to be fair, since you have not been put through the horror of losing your baby makers, I am a little less sympathetic). It is a well-established medical fact that men suffer these things WAY worse than women and so I am intending to open a hot line which will patiently listen to all death bed confessions, pained groaning and pitiful whimpering 24/7. Gelding survival kits are being created now consisting of brandy, duvets, vapour rubs, bute, paracetamol, cold and flu and throat lozenges alongside a sick-note preventing work for at least the four weeks it will take to recover. There is a mare’s version also being compiled consisting of one paracetamol and a copy of the local competition listings…
So, I’m off to fantasise about my escape, further educate the clueless cow pony and think about how I will break my very exciting news to you all. I’m am deeply worried about the mass hysteria that might be caused.
Laters,
Hovis
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