Dear diary,
So, it’s fair to say its been back down to earth with a bump. All the highs of Your Horse is Alive and now I’m back in a field with mother working me half to death and moaning that I’m “full of it”. To be fair, so is she most of the time, but I think it might be a different “it”.
It didn’t help that the other day I had a repeat performance of the elephant man horse and had another massive allergic reaction to something. Cue lumps all over and oozing. Lots and lots of oozing. The boss lady was rather perturbed, Aunty Em horrified and mother positively suicidal. Aunty H suggested that I have Munchhausen’s by proxy, which shows that she’s definitely with me in my view that mother needs psychological help, but all concerned agreed that there was no proxy involved here — pox yes, proxy not so much.
So, I was allowed off ridden work for a few days, only because the oozing was across my saddle area and I’m of the opinion that frankly mother didn’t want pus on my *cough* second hand *cough* saddle. Now most normal mothers would have given their pus covered ponies some time off right? Time for them and their hives to hang out? No, not my mother. No, she makes me run around in the cold and the rain and then moans when I decide in order to warm up that I ought to ignore any attempt to keep me in the sedate end of my gears and go for full pelt circling, thus meaning mother spins around like a weather vane in a hurricane. I was at one point wondering if I got up enough of a head of steam if I might be transported somewhere else — like the stable of Emily King’s rather fine looking mare with whom I had exchanged hot and heavy glances at YHL. I did at one point shut my eyes and click my heels together a la Dorothy, but sadly upon opening them was still where I had been and now mother was glaring daggers as my back legs had just whistled past her ears like the intercity express to London. I was sadly still in Kansas…
I was further to blot my copy book only a few days later, when mini-mother wandered into my field looking like Casper the friendly ghost. To my intense alarm, she appeared to have lost her arms and hands and I thus approached with care in case this was not mini-mother but some sort of pod person sent to lure me into a trap probably set by the diving bombing pheasant currently residing in the hedge next to my field. Snorting hard to warn of my manliness, I approached this strange looking creature, who smelt like a small pony type and whose long sleeves were wafting about like tentacles — it went to stroke my nose and so showing my lightening reflexes, I leapt away and ran for safety, frankly leaving mother to fend for herself. Survival of the fittest and all that — and I am the fittest, she’s the fattest. Mother yelling that it was mini-mother wearing mother’s coat (as well as a LOT of expletives) at my rapidly retreating back, did nothing to reassure me and so began a fun chase around the field with mother trying to get my headcollar on when I’m in my full 19hh dragon mode. Mini-mother was clearly unimpressed and had high tailed it back to the car by this point, and so thus didn’t see my epic 0-90 mile an hour sideways leap on my exit from the field as the aforementioned dive bombing pheasant came hurtling out at me like a fighter plane. Forget Hun in the Sun, this is Pheasant in the foliage. Needless to say, by the time we arrived back at the yard, the only thing having prevented mother from actually killing me was a lack of weaponry.
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I am still in the dog house as I write having clearly not managed to convey enough contriteness to pacify she-who-owns-many-leadropes-and-is-not-afraid-to-use-any-of-them. So much for the spirit of good will to all men. Anyone looking for a new horse for Christmas? Anyone?
Laters,
Hovis
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