Dear diary,
So it’s been quite a good week in many ways: I’ve been allowed out walking (aka mothership kite flying) and in-hand grazing (which means I’ve finally remembered what grass looks like). Herman the German Needle Man has told mother he sees turn-out in my near future, Cool New Shoes Man came to look at making me some new shoes to protect the great hole of Hovis and the cowardly coblet has disgraced himself by behaving like a complete fanny when the vet had to check his microchip. All in all, a very good week.
But the best bit? I have clearance to tell you my exciting news. So my only conundrum (being a gelding of large feet and vocabulary) is do I tell you about the rest of my week first, leaving you hanging like Stallone in Cliffhanger, or do I tell you now and risk the fact you might be so hysterical with excitement that the rest of my witty prose is wasted?
So maybe I tease you a tad, like a Wrong Direction stud puffin lifting the edge of their shirt at a bunch of screaming teenagers, although to be clear I don’t wish to be leapt upon like a Hovis hamburger at a fat fighters class…
Casting my eye (the very expensive bionic one, not the blind one which I turn to mum every time she’s signalling me to do something) back over 2018 there was a common theme. Here to be clear I don’t mean a theme of me being an all-conquering mega star with incredible philanthropic tendencies and ability to send every mare in the county wild; although to be fair that would all be true. Nor do I mean my generous contributions to the university education of my vets’ children and the funding of the recent building of the west wing of Herman Towers complete with swimming pool with my face in mosaic on the bottom…
No, what I mean was last year was the year of the Kings: Mary at Belton, Mary at Your Horse Live and Emily lusting over me with jealousy while I hooned around the ring with her mother having a ball. So where does a gelding go from there?
Well I guess there’s only one answer really isn’t there? I shall leave you to ponder that perhaps. Answers on a postcard — and don’t forget the stamp…
Anyway back to much more important things; like grass. And the fact I’ve actually been allowed to see some for the first time in months. What the boss lady swiftly realised, because she is both lovely and intelligent, is that it can be blowing a gale, raining sideways, hailing golf balls and if I have grass I wont bat an eyelid. The rabbit militia could be launching a full assault inches from my nose, I could be dive bombed by pheasants, the pesky pigeons could be parading parallel to my patellas and you know what? Nary a reaction. IF I have grass. And I don’t mean the hippy, “yeah man, peace out” type, I mean Doctor Green. The giver of life and much joy. And the stuff that the bijou black and white bovine is probably going to have restricted soon as Cool New Shoes Man suggested he was fat. I have never loved the man more than at that minute. To the extent I have nearly forgiven him for tonguing my nostrils on several rather uncomfortably awkward occasions. I was hailed as manly but slim, whereas the feathered fool was deemed porky. This pleased me for several reasons: a) it ensures that when I get back out to MY field and MY grass there actually might be some left, b) the thought of the blue eyed boy wearing a Hannibal Lector mask all summer is positively hilarious and c) it means mother is so focussed on his exercise plan that she might leave me alone.
Possibly.
Highly unlikely but possible…
This was fresh on the back of him having a heart attack when the vet wafted the chip scanner over his neck and him promptly flattening the vet (not Herman) and his mother. Honestly you couldn’t make it up. He won’t be due his knighthood anytime soon that’s for sure…
Anyway I’m off to do important things like eat grass, laugh at the cowardly coblet and practise my bow. You know, as you do…
Laters,
Hovis
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