Dear diary,
This will be the last you hear from me.
For two weeks anyway. She-who-must-be-obeyed is going to see some mouse dude with mini-mother and dad and is leaving me to my own devices. Well leaving me to be bossed about by Dolly, harassed by Aunty H, ridden into the ground by Aunty Emily and fed by the boss lady. Oh and leaving me to sleep OUTSIDE while she stays in some five star hotel with fluffy duvets and pillows. Bitter? Moi? Whatever gave you that idea?!
Anyway the upshot of it is since she’s my secretary, takes my dictations and then types them up and since she does not see fit to provide me with a temporary replacement in her absence then it will be radio silence from me. I shall ask Aunty Emily to post some moody manly photographs of me on my Facebook pages just to keep you all going, lest you pine away or something equally dramatic…
To be fair if mother wasn’t going away to hang out with Dopey (and no Aunty Becky isn’t going too), I have a feeling I might still have been on radio silence as there’s not a great deal of signal in the dog house. Which to be fair is where I was residing most of this last week.
It’s not my fault (to be fair these things never are), it’s the daft regime we have to go through as we’re transitioning from the winter fields to the summer fields. So ok the winter fields by this stage haven’t got much grass in them and the summer fields have — like duh! That’s why we’re moving — and yes we all might end up with laminitis, or colic or something else but why do we have to go through such a whoo-harr?
We have to walk down in the morning, have a few hours and then come back to the winter fields. Then gradually we spend more time in the summer fields until it’s deemed ok for us to stay down there. Can I also add that my evil witch of a mother strip grazes AS WELL so really it’s like showing a fat bloke a cake factory and then making him sit in reception eating lettuce.
Anyway Dolly and I usually make the trip down together — me because I love staring at her rump and her because she’s a high maintenance drama queen who needs me to hold her hoof — and it’s fair to say we might have been playing up. A little tiny weeny bit. Who can blame a guy? Field full of the green stuff, hot momma mare and the sun shining down. Our synchronised half pass is something to behold and the piaffe through the small gap in the hedge is something Nip and Tuckshop could only dream of carrying off.
Aunty H and mum have over the years perfected the art of bringing the two “heavy weights” of the yard in together (I think this refers to the fact we are the yard equine royalty and not the fact my legs weigh more than the other horses put together), but occasionally it doesn’t hurt to remind them that this feeling of smugness over who is in charge is nothing but smoke and mirrors.
So when mum came to bring us both back to the winter fields the other night we may have sought to point out the fact she might think she’s the big boss lady but really? We both weigh nearly 750kg and even though mother is no half pint she’s going to do nothing more than plough a neat line in the field with her feet if we really wanted to go.
>>> Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘the woman upstairs had some sort of brain fart’
Still, we restrained ourselves to a nice set of shoulder-in, canter pirouettes and finished with a nice set of two-time changes. By the time mother had untangled herself form the lead ropes, called both our sets of parents some very rude names and walloped both of us with our respective lead ropes it had dawned on us she wasn’t amused. The slight accidental push into the electric fence was merely us trying to help her get prepared for tough mudder and was in no way a deliberate act of vengeance for her suggesting that shipping our carcasses out to Africa could solve the famine crisis for at least six months. No siree like we’d do such a thing. Honest…
So I’m off to enjoy a mother-free fortnight, enjoy the summer grass and the nakedness of my nextdoor neighbour and I shall see you all soon.
Laters,
Hovis
