Dear diary,
Ok. I didn’t think we would have to have this conversation this early in the year after last winter, but someone has clearly upset the mercurial one again – and no I don’t mean my mother. I mean mother nature. After all the months last year of her unleashing her wrath because I don’t know she was horny/hormonal/homicidal (*delete as appropriate), I would have thought we would have been tiptoeing around her like mice in a cattery. But no. Someone has peed her off and once again, we are being subjected to an onslaught of conditions best expressed as “bracing” while the fields are swiftly turning from green(ish) summer pastures into mud baths, two feet deep in water. By the mid-point of this past week, if I wanted to find grass, I would have had to physically duck dive and use a snorkel.
Now, it’s October peoples, and early October at that. None of us want a repeat of last winter where waterboarding was a group activity and anything under 15hh needed water wings and a lifeguard. If you all recall, I saved the day last time around by curating a deal in which we offered up sacrifices to sooth her savage soul in the shape of shitlands. Lots of shitlands. Now I don’t know about the rest of you, but I am a huge fan of the principle of the “greatest good for the greatest number” and while I suppose shitlands have their uses – cute to look at but couldn’t eat a whole one – I’m sorry, but needs must.
As I have learned from years of dealing with my mother, I think the trick this time is to not let her get up a full head of steam in her rage. Let’s attempt to bring her down a notch now, rather than really let her get going, so I’m thinking we need to start the sacrifices again now rather than waiting until we have all shrunk under the deluge of freezing cold water like wool socks in a tumble dryer. Only at least they’re warm…
So, let’s start with chucking her some shitlands and once we have exhausted our global supply of the feisty feral foot-high fidos then we can consider ponies. I have a pint-sized orange pain in the posterior that I am happy to offer up…
I am hopeful that early action and us showing our love/contritement for whatever sin we have committed which has riled her (she’s a woman – the list could be endless…) could save us from another winter of staying inside while the resident rabbits use our fields for cross channel swim training.
Mother (as in my mother) is clearly not hopeful of our efforts as she’s been talking with Herman the German Needle Man about injecting my hocks as a mitigation of me being a bit stiff last winter. I do point out that the youngest and fittest among us were a bit stiff when it was wetter than the inside of an otter’s pocket everywhere and we did about as much exercise as a sloth on gange for weeks on end. As usual, I don’t see anyone injecting her when frankly watching her from behind is like watching the leaning tower of Pisa wander down the road – i.e. slow and very, very wonky.
Anyways, due to my age (cheek), build (pot kettle black fat ass) and damage to my foot (I have housed two Kevin the Keratomas and been subject to the butchers of Bottesford doing cowboy surgery on me), they decided that steroids would be a bad idea, so I am due to have some sort of slime injected in a week or so into both rear legs. I am slightly concerned that this could cause mutations to my already phenomenal superpowers so if anyone sees me glowing in the dark at Your Horse is Alive, you know who to blame…
Anyways, I am off to co-ordinate the sacrifice. Please don’t be selfish – operation Shitlands for Drylands is critical to us surviving the next few months, so give generously.
Laters,
Hovis
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