Dear diary,
As I type, I’m pretty sure I might be featuring in several other online outlets and publications – unfortunately for me, less fan-type pages where people extol my brilliance, but more, for sale sites, where I suspect mother has suggested payment for me isn’t necessary… fair to say she doesn’t luff me right now.
Now, as usual, this lack of affection is grossly unfair, but still I suspect she actually might mean it this time and as such this could be the last time I write to you, as my new career as a pit pony may preclude me having the time to do so…
Her issue started last weekend when she came to help mini-mother commence bringing the whingy ginger back into work, which I will be honest, I took umbrage to. She has more faults than the San Andreas area, but she is my mother and I dislike seeing her lungeing the pint-sized pain in the posterior while cooing good boy at him when he’s done nothing more impressive than not fall over his own feet. At first, I tried expressing my lack of delight by meaningfully turning my back to her in my field, but this was about as effective as giving her a Weight Watchers leaflet had been in reducing the size of her arse. Clearly, I deduced, a more dramatic measure was needed.
So, I decided to stage a protest.
Since I am not prepared to go on hunger strike (I mean, I was jealous and all, but that would have been a tad extreme), I decided to stage a sit-in protest. Now here, in my defence your honour, other than a few circus trained-types and the odd deluded thoroughbred, most horses can’t actually sit. So thus, it was more a lay down-type protest.
I suppose looking back the fact I chose to do it in a muddy field and the fact I’m not prone to lying down was not something I had taken into account and thus her reaction to my dramatic entry into my protest (I may, possibly, sort of groaned very loudly in disgust on the way down) is sort of understandable. Hearing the escalating levels of panic in her voice as she yelled my name, I realised that she may, possibly, sort of thought I died. Realising that I was going to wish I had when she realised I hadn’t, I did what any sane equine would do – played dead.
It was only when she skidded to a halt next to me, covered in mud and emanating blind panic did I realise that she might do something really awful – like give me mouth to mouth in public – and so the best course of action might be a Lazarus style rising. For the record, I always knew my mother was in possession of an incredible vocabulary, but she’d brought that and a friend, as for the next five minutes I don’t think she neither paused, nor repeated herself, in her verbal onslaught.
I was then frog marched for a bath (did I mention that my sit in protest may have been right in the middle of a very very muddy field?) where to be fair, mini-mother took over in fear of my welfare. I think she, like me, had very real visioning of mother waterboarding me or throttling me with the shower hose. Mini-mother cleaned my feathers while I attempted to school my features into a suitably Bambi-eyed picture of loving innocence to mother. I think on the zero to successful scale it worked about as well using a sieve as a wine glass…
Unfortunately from there, things went downhill faster than Eddie the Eagle – and without about as much style. For the washing of my somewhat mucky feathers revealed that I might, possibly, sort of have been chewing the back of my knee again, resulting in a sore patch and all round scabbiness.
Let’s be clear. I am a big, brave horse to whom most people can do most things, but I am not keen on anyone being near the back of my knee. I do find that my habit of doing the can-cans as soon as anyone even looks at it does make this matter quite clear – most people can recognise that being on the receiving end of one of my kicks would make a Jean Claude White Van Man film look underacted. I weigh nearly 750kg, people – I could put you on the moon without the aid of a space craft…
Anyways, what I mean is most sensible people would thus back off and leave the issue alone. But this is my mother. I need say no more.
She called up reinforcements in the shape of Crazy Self-Employed Lady, her clippers and the night night stick and we then engaged in combat; mother hanging off the twitch and my headcollar like a barnacle while evading my increasingly powerful Chuck Norris-style round house kicks like Ben Stiller in Dodgeball (same hairdo and unsavoury attitude) while CSEL destroyed my feather and my self esteem with her clippers. For 20 very long minutes it was a clash of the titans – my strength vs their strength of character and resolve. There was only really ever going to be one winner.
So, as I type I have clean feathers, one of whom is so massacred I will be going everywhere backwards to avoid being used as the next runway for Heathrow and am the star of many “free to any home” adverts.
Mother was last seen eating her own substantial body weight in prescription painkillers, washed down with wine and her tears, muttering about taking up knitting. I am concerned one of my launches of her into the stable wall may have induced concussion or something?
I am sure at some point she may calm down, but if she doesn’t then it’s been nice knowing you all.
Laters,
Hovis
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