Dear diary,
It’s fair to say (misquoting the great Sherlock Gnome) things at the moment are a bit not good.
Last week I told you I’d blown an abscess in my bad foot again, creating once again a cavern that potholers can only dream of breaching. Cool New Shoes Man came out on Friday and dug out my foot with the enthusiasm of Monty Don turning over his rose bed, and announced to a white-faced mother that if it went any further then the Hurd Deep was going to be suing me for copyright. By Saturday things had gone south faster than a penguin on the pull, and I was left standing on three legs sweating like Dominic Cummings’ optician at a Barnard Castle breakfast buffet. The emergency vet was called out, which marked a first for me — not tried that one before — and led to a nice lady sticking a wonderful volume of happy juice into my neck while trying to get a hysterical mother to stop pacing enough to tranquilise her in tandem. Why she didn’t use a dart gun I have no idea — mother’s arse is similar in ratio and morphology to an elephants and it clearly works on them…
Monday saw Herman the German Needle Man turn up at the same time as a bunch of tree surgeons who were taking down the large conifers at the yard. This seemed to chuff Herman no end as he excitedly went to ask them how much it would cost to trim his large bush at home, safe in the knowledge mother would be paying for it…
After dressing the boss lady, mother and himself in some lead lederhosen, many X-rays were taken of my foot with the results causing Herman to actually look serious enough that I pondered how much money mother actually owes him. The upshot being in his view things are “a bit not good” and leading to mother and him having THE conversation about mortal coils. Now a) when you’re discussing shuffling me off my perch like a poorly parrot can you please do it away from my Hoverine hearing, b) he could have brought tissues so mother didn’t wipe the resulting tears and snot all over my newly washed mane and c) having THE conversation about me leaving this earth is about as required as a game of strip poker at a nudist colony. I am, after all, the Hoverine; the ultimate comeback king, although even I was a tad twitchy when I heard the timescales that the decision might need to be made in — I might need to employ a swifter comeback than Pato Banton…
The upshot being I was pumped full of more antibiotics than botox into a Kardashian and Cool New Shoes Man was summoned by bat-phone to bring my toe back even further to try and alleviate the pressure — at least that on my toe, I can’t do a lot for mother’s nerves other than offer to share my bute or slip her a calming cookie into her tea.
Continued below…
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While I am rather miffed by mother’s negative Nancy narrative on the length of time I might have left to grace this earth, she did at least use the opportunity to remind everyone on my fan pages of the schemes most of the equine charities are running to help hoomans say the long goodbye to my fellow equines. Delayed euthanasia is a massive welfare issue and shouldn’t be something that we don’t talk about. Indeed, when I think at how long I’ve kept mother going for, just to ensure that I get treats makes me quite ashamed. Joking aside, the Friend at the End schemes are brilliant and should be used more often — although Herman is much more a fan of the friend who likes to spend scheme, which mother has wholeheartedly supported for some considerable time now…
Herman and CNSM are back out later today to take another look and to discuss plans; hopefully of the type so cunning they could be given a tail and called foxy. However, just in case the Chuckle Brothers can’t rub two brain cells together, I wouldn’t be averse to a few vibes as well — a boy can’t be too careful.
Laters,
Hovis
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