Dear diary,
I’m still in a box.
Very, very, very bored.
I escaped from my box last weekend. Note to self: escape hurts one’s bottom and one’s ears; mother’s shriek was so high pitched only dogs and unfortunately horses were able to hear it. My ear drums are still bleeding…
The “incident” did however demonstrate that despite being old, overweight and usually lame, she-who-must-be-obeyed can react faster than a viper on Columbian marching powder with her retrieval of me putting the Crufts fly-ball champions to shame. And she’s only got two legs. Fat ones at that…
My escape was only down to the super power I am developing through my daily electrocution with the power of my mind opening my door and my desire to protect humanity causing me to burst free and save the world. Or alternatively, mum didn’t quite engage the catch — the incorrectly closed door couldn’t cope with 775kg of muscle leaning on it and I was miraculously loose — well, for the 32.5 seconds it took mother to leg it back through the barn and get my feathered frame back into the box of boredom. But, to quote Mr Diesel Van, for those 32.5 seconds I was free.
Well sort of…
I was edging closer to freedom, or at least turn out in a pitiful postage stamp of a field with three blades of grass and the torment of not being able to canter about like a large equine Heidi, but I appear to have put the dampeners on that as this week my poorly leg developed an unexpected amount of swelling and heat. Boss lady looked worried. She phoned mother. Mother flapped like a chicken at a rave and called Herman. Herman was on holiday having just had a baby Herman (well his wife had — he’d probably stood about and made unhelpful comments about pushing while she plotted the 101 ways she’d like to kill him). So mum then rang his rather more attractive side kick. She, being the dudette, arrived swiftly and decided that I needed yet more drugs and a LOT of TLC. I got the drugs. TLC is still awaited.
So the view at the moment is Herman needs to look at me again next week, take some more X-rays and scans and then they will decide what to do next.
In the meantime, I was cheered when a post bag full of cards and such like arrived from Bransby — my fans are my mojo and it cheered me up immensely. Thank you to all of you who sent me letters and things — mother has to read them to me but I liked them all. Especially the one on blue paper — that one was lovely — very tasty too…
Continued below…
Hovis’ Friday diary: down but not out
Hovis has undergone some fancy treatment but he's
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘when I came around I had more massacred feather and a hangover’
Hovis has not appreciated being repeatedly stabbed by
Mum went at the weekend to see Cool New Shoes Man who is ahead of me in his recovery and is now on restricted turn out. I think this is featherist behaviour and demonstrates the unfairness of the human class system. His replacement slightly-less-kissy new shoes man is hopefully coming to see me shortly so we shall see if he too enjoys the honour of cuddling up to an equine superstar. I so love it when they get all embarrassed and blush — the hyperventilation I could live without, but what can I say? I clearly take their breath away…
Anyways, I’m off to plot my next mother breakdown-inducing tactic and listen to the radio: I’m only Hovis after all — don’t put the blame on me…
Laters,
Hovis
