Dear diary,
God hates me. I have decided. Not content with saddling me with a neurotic mother with the hairdressing ability of Edward Scissor Hands with the DTs, a stable full of indifferent mares and a river dance reject as a wing man it’s now raining again. Heavily. Did I nod off and miss summer?
The only thing that’s cheered me up is the fact that my mum and Hot Stepper’s mum haven’t yet turned us out — him because he’s a delicate flower, and me because apparently being 24/7 on grass makes me look like an equine pregnant Kardashian. Standing in the dry watching the rest of the yard huddle under their wet rugs like drowned rodents is mildly amusing. Only mildly because, quite frankly, I have had a week of it.
Not satisfied last week with making me look like a white fluff ball with a fringe Cleopatra would be proud of, this week mum called in the needle man — Herman the German. He came to give me my yearly jabs for my legs. Mum says it necessary to stop my legs falling off, but I’ve checked with Billy and he doesn’t have them, so is mum telling me porky pies?
However, on looking at his computer, they realised I was also due my other jabs. So not content with sticking one needle in my neck he shoved in three. One each side and one in my chest for good measure. I think I almost preferred him fondling my frankfurter. Note, I said almost. Surely I have a good case for blatant equine cruelty? I look like friar tuck with leg warmers on and now they’re trying to make me into a needle hedgehog. Unloved I am, plainly unloved.
Added to the more obvious physical and mental torture I have also had to endure several more “schooling” sessions with mother in which we did more transitions than I’ve eaten blades of grass. Apparently mother has read that someone called Carl Nester recommends hundreds of transitions per session. Great, once again my mother is taking riding advice from big bird.
And my god did she have her pants in a twist about me having an instant reaction to her request for an upwards or downwards change of speed. Does someone want to point out to her that I am not a racing go-cart? I have to engage or disengage rear wheel propulsion and it takes a couple of seconds. Added to which, I was quite enjoying cantering about watching my still snowy white feathers waft in the breeze. I was so taken aback by how majestic I looked in the school mirrors that I almost crashed into them, which went down like a beef burger at a vegetarian BBQ.
Mind you, the rude words she called me after she’d peeled herself like a stick-on Garfield off the school mirrors was nothing compared to those she used on Sunday. Mum was poo picking and getting rid of ragwort in my field and I was in a happy mood and very aware of a rare audience of attentive mares. So I might have done a fair bit of stallion-like rearing, running and bucking. Maybe. I might have reared up and sprung off my back legs like a gazelle up and over mum’s wheel barrow. Possibly. I might even have nicked mums ragwort fork and run off with it. Something I deny — I will always maintain I was helping her carry it. Honestly. After mum had had a nice jog after me I did let her catch me as she’s only got little legs and was turning an alarming shade of puce. If it wasn’t for her panting making her unintelligible I have a rather distinct impression my ears might have hurt. Ooops. If I’m AWOL next week you’ll know I am once again back in casa del pero.
Yours disconsolately,
Hovis
