Dear diary,
So this week has mainly seen me being looked after by aunty H as the boss lady is on holiday. I like being looked after by aunty H because despite her occasionally breathing fire like some sort of dragon with halitosis she is a complete push over when it comes to persuading her I am weak and under-nourished. I bat my big brown baby seal eyes at her and she’s putty in my hooves.
I loved her even more when I overheard the evil one (i.e. mother) suggest that I could probably go down to one meal a day without any negative impact. NEGATIVE impact? I get less than a mouthful of food to take my supplements with as it is and she wants to drop that to ONCE a day? There are charities helping people abroad who feed them more than that!
Aunty H turned around and immediately vetoed that idea on the principle she couldn’t possibly take Dolly her tea and not give me anything as she would feel “awful”. I SO love that woman. She also then confessed that I get a carrot a day from her when she takes Dolly hers as she can’t resist my pitiful look. Mother’s look at her was not pitiful in the slightest – more bordering on homicidal to be honest – so I wisely thought it best not to mention the extra strong mints…
It was mini-mother’s fourth birthday at the weekend so I had a relatively quiet one while mother dealt with hyper excited small people – yes that’s right, granny was over from Spain.
Granny is great fun to play with as she starts off all brave wanting a stroke and then when I meander after her in the field she starts running about like something from a Benny Hill sketch with her shrieking and me following her. It gives me great amusement and I rather suspect it does mother too as she’s usually bent double trying not to wee herself (but then again that could be an age thing). Granny then watches how gentle I am with mini-mother and loudly complains that it’s not fair that I “harass” her. Not fair? Maybe. Hilariously funny? Definitely.
I briefly saw Aunty Becky as she was visiting for mini-mother’s birthday party and I did overhear tales of fattening work ahead of the cult event Your Horse is Alive.
This worried me slightly as I do view myself as a super fit (and clearly Olympic ready – hint) specimen already, so why the need for fattening I know not. Mind you, mother also described me as a filthy, feral, feathered fool (and yes she likes her alliteration) so I’m sensing that “image” improvement is on her mind. I of course wait to see the weight loss and grooming on her side that would make this partnership a fair one – oh wait! That’s right! One rule for the nag and one rule for the horse. Bom bom!
Anyway, mother is busy trying to sort out executive transport for me to get to Your Horse is Alive as we sold my lorry when mini-mother was about two. As mum is insistent on staying with me in the lorry park to “make sure I don’t corrupt any posh horses” we need a lorry with living so mother is busy phoning half the world trying to sort it out. I would have thought companies would be falling over themselves to say that a star has travelled in one of their lorries but I don’t think mother is conveying this clearly enough to them. One day I so have to sack her as my manager.
Like this? You might also enjoy reading these:
Hovis’ Friday Diary: I think Team GB has forgotten to invite its secret weapon
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I can finally announce my big news!’
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Mother suggested more than once my dam might have been a harlot with the morals of an alley cat and no taste’
Anyway I’m off to make goo-goo eyes at Aunty H, avoid Aunty Emily and Aunty Becky’s keep fit regime and await to hear whether we’re going to have to hitch hike to Your Horse is Alive.
Laters,
Hovis
