Dear diary,
So, this week has been an interesting learning week about that most peculiar and unpredictable of creatures, yep you’ve guessed it guys – “the female”.
This week I have learned that Mother Nature can actually play nicely when she wants to and give us that golden shining thing in the sky… ON A BANK HOLIDAY no less. This is the mercurial witch who has been known to send four seasons in a day and who can blow hotter and colder than my own mothership’s moods. Because she is playing so nicely I, along with my other equine inmates, have been turned out 24/7, which would be exciting if I actually had any grass. Sadly, my mother is tighter than a duck’s firmly clenched arse when it comes to both money and my munching and as such, I am as bereft of grass as she is of any form of talent. She claims this stringency with my supper keeps me slim and svelte, which in turn is good for my joints – if that’s the logic then no wonder I can audibly hear her knees from 50 yards away; it’s less they’re clicking and more loudly protesting about the fact she doesn’t practise what she preaches. Now, before anyone calls horseline, I do have to reluctantly point out I do get plenty of hay, but that’s about as exciting as a chocolate covered celery stick – nice to look at but the reality is sadly disappointing.
Apparently according to the vet who came the other day – not to see me before anyone panics – I am looking as good as she has ever seen. In response to this I am currently writing to Herman the German Needle Man to suggest if he doesn’t make eyesight testing compulsory in his glamorous side kicks, then he need not think I’m going to let them near my body any time soon. The mind boggles where they might put their hands… *shudders *
I mean, I get that Herman possibly found his degree in a cornflakes packet, but I did think he surrounded himself with semi-professionals (Cool New Shoes Man aside). How anyone can not see I am an emaciated wreck in need of salvation is beyond me. The shine she claimed she could see off my coat was not the radiance of good health and vitality but the sunlight bouncing off my protruding ribs. Honestly…
So, mother nature is on form, lady vet is blind and so that leads me to my final exhibits in the ‘women are complicated’ argument. Aunty Em and Mother.
Aunty Em has been getting me up at all hours to work in the school before the worms have even got out of bed, let alone the early bird turning up. Unless the early bird is Aunty Em? Who knows. Anyway, the point being that this work lark is becoming highly overrated when its conducted at an hour so early the dawn chorus hasn’t even vocally warmed up. But at least she is faintly fit for action and doesn’t resemble something that should have been euthanised some time ago.
Unlike mother.
Honestly, I am actually grateful that we’re not out competing anymore. Someone would report my to the RSPCO (Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Owners) for abuse. The woman isn’t fit to ride a Ferris wheel under supervision, let alone ¾ tonne of equine exuberance. Seriously, there are drawbridges that raise quicker than her leg goes up and as for her ability to sit straight – well let’s just say the leaning tower of Pisa is undergoing therapy for no longer being the largest wonky structure on the planet…
So, imagine my surprise at the weekend after she has heaved her broken body parts into the saddle and we had walked around over lots of the poles (on the floor – honestly I haven’t been so embarrassed since I added the willy washer woman to the list of things that make the Hovis hose happy) that she asked for trot. Now at first, I wasn’t sure whether she wasn’t having a medication-induced moment and that the “ask” was some sort of involuntary spasm, but no the only spasm occurring was her brain telling her that trotting was a good idea with a back that resembles the outcome of a game of Jenga between two competitive four-year-olds…
Still, never let it be said I don’t listen, so off I tootled.
Now, I did report the other week that when Herman saved my life he may have uncoupled my feet and brain and as such, trotting is a bit “trippy” and I don’t mean in the “peace man” kind of a way. Needless to say, by the time we’d done a few circuits, I was thoroughly enjoying myself and mother resembled Casper the friendly ghost on hearing he has to pay my vets bills. I briefly considered hitting the turbo button and going for a “C”, but I reconsidered after mother started whimpering and it became clear the cause wasn’t her poor life choices. It’s fair to say I’m on my way back peoples – the ultimate come back kid does it yet again – whereas mother not so much.
So, I’m off to practise getting my feet and brain to work together, try and make out that I need more grass and hang out with some of the new guys who have arrived at the yard.
Laters,
Hovis
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