Dear Diary
I didn’t think after being nearly killed last week that the man upstairs would put me through any more trauma, certainly not any time soon, but I think I have final proof (if any were needed) that it’s not a man upstairs, but a woman. A woman who is definitely in cahoots with the mothership (which explains why she has defied Darwin’s principles for so long). Honestly my life sucks harder that an 80-year-old on his last Werther’s Original
The week started promisingly enough – well for me anyway. Due to the hard ground, I had done my usual trick of causing a massive split in my rear hoof on the leg I broke many years ago. This in turn sent Crazy Boss Lady into a tailspin with many photos being sent to the mothership who replied with a slightly unperturbed “he does this, don’t stress”, which was backed up by a laconic reply from Cool New Shoes Man that he’d get out to me this week but I was fine, if not somewhat special. I have a feeling there might have been an emphasis on the “special” that might have been a tad derogatory, but it’s always difficult to tell with CNSM.
Needless to say, CBL was slightly less laid back and decided not to hack me alone to my certain death this week – between the hoof, the heat and the reenactment of the Le Mans last week, I was whole heartedly behind this sensible approach. Let’s be honest, sensible isn’t something that one associates with mother so you take it where you find it…
CNSM was supposed to come on Tuesday but had rung mother on Monday night having realised one very important point. I needed new shoes. Like duh?! But because I am unique (such a better word than special), I can’t have common off-the-shelf shoes.
I have bespoke shoes.
Which he makes.
When he actually remembers…
Cue the slightly embarrassed senior moment confession to mother, which of course has given her enough ammo for the next six months.
So, he’s coming tomorrow to see Barbie and I and fit my new shoes.
Anyways, having not seen CNSM (although he might have been less Cool and more Hot New Shoes Man – which I didn’t think through when I typed and now I realize sounds very, very dodgy), I did see mother and mini mother. They came down with homemade ice lollies for us all, which mini-mother had supposedly spent hours on cutting up and freezing. I had one, Barbie had a sugar free one and my mates across the aisle Toby and Flump had one each too.
Mini mother has all the generosity of spirit her mother doesn’t have – maybe it all skipped a generation? Anyways I was in trouble for eating it faster than a fat fighter eating an illegal donut and Toby risked mothers’ wrath by stomping all over his. Flump and Barbie politely licked theirs like little creeping kiss bottoms so thus were heralded as wonderous examples of equine manners. I don’t care. I was hot, it was cold and full of yummy stuff.
Let’s be honest, it’s not like mother can’t pretend she isn’t a biscuit hoover with a butt that needs a wide load sticker…
I’m still not sure, therefore, if what happened on Wednesday was due to it actually being needed, or if it was some strange revenge for my lack of lollipop gratitude.
I was brought in by the mothership and dumped into the washroom, but with the door closed (which is unusual and should have raised my suspicions). Minutes later Herman the German Needle Man’s glamorous assistant turned up, but as crazy Daisy was tied up outside the barn, and there’s nothing wrong with me, I foolishly thought she was here to see her. How dumb am I? (Don’t answer that)
Two “pats” later and tweetie pie is doing a flyby around my ears and my mother is savaging my feathers with scissors and clippers (I mean who for the love of God gave her clippers – the woman can’t mow the lawn without making it look like a massacre) whilst I am powerless to stop her. I felt so drunk if I’d even tried to lift my foot to kick her, I would have fallen over. And I didn’t know which one of the three versions of mother I could see I was supposed to kick anyway.
Honest to God, the vet just STOOD there and watched one of the worst acts of cruelty that the equine world has ever seen. I have an equine MULLET. From the front my feathers look fine. Like nothing has happened. From the back the horror is all too evident – I have two landing strips. Heathrow won’t have to extend, honestly they can just use my legs. I am going to have to walk everywhere backwards for months to avoid anyone wondering if I’ve got mange. It looks like Stevie Wonder and Edward Scissorhands did a team challenge involving topiary.
The worse thing? After that evil woman had finished shredding my feathers, my dignity and my will to live, she announced actually my legs weren’t that bad. WHAT?! I am BALD from behind my knees to my ankles and there was NO need? She tried to turn this back on me and suggest if I didn’t break into a Las Vegas Chorus girl routine every time anyone even looked sideways at my legs then this wouldn’t have been necessary.
I’m sorry it’s not my fault that you’re such an incompetent horse owner that you can’t degrease my legs without feeding me roofies and using a hedge trimmer.
I am traumatised.
Seriously traumatised.
I know she’s told everyone not to mention anything, but I haz eyes – and one of them is very expensive and actually works. I can see the damage.
I may not mentally recover from this.
I am bracing for the urine extraction from Cool New Shoes Man tomorrow and plotting how I can order some furry leg warmers to at least get me through the next few weeks. Any help is gratefully received.
Laters,
A-less-hairy Hovis
You may also be interested in reading…
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘My life was very nearly ended this week by an idiotic motorist’
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Trying to hang on to my feathers and my pride’
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘The karma bus has come round and firmly run her over’
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