Dear diary,
I write to you from within a box. Resting. Because that’s what I’m on apparently, “box rest” — which is very odd because to be honest it very much feels like “stay in your stable and not be allowed out with the others”. There is nary a box in sight?
So after last week’s killer question of “will the MRI coil fit around my magnificent manly leg?” The answer was yes it will. But not without soul destroying damage — more on that in a minute.
The MRI scan has shown that I don’t have a fracture but I have a huge oedema and have damaged my cartilage in a manner very similar to high class racehorses. What can I say? I always said if that dude could be called Seabiscuit then I could break into that world as Soggy Hobnob — never let the feather fool you, I am a 4×4 with a Porsche engine…
Anyhow, the net result of a week in hospital was a stressed mother, a slightly slimmer me and a now positively sick bank balance in need of urgent transfusions. Mother has asked me to ask if anyone is in need of body parts as she might have to sell some of hers.
So on the Saturday they said I could come home and be treated by Herman the German and his evil needles — a delight I have to look forward to later today when he comes to do my first joint injections. He’s also sniggering because I have to have a drug called Tildren which apparently is for old women. I’m currently plotting which one of his toes to “accidentally” break. Laugh it up Hoppy Herman…
Mum arrived on Saturday afternoon and looked thrilled to see me. She opened the stable door and cuddled me enthusiastically, thereby nearly cutting off my oxygen supply, and missing me so much that I thought the vet nurse was envisaging a scene from fifty shades of bay.
Then she looked down.
And went white. For where there had once been two immaculate white feathered power house legs was now one leg and a massacre. The vet nurse weakly offered “we had to give him a haircut” as mother started to hyper-ventilate. I don’t know what her problem is — it’s my leg, I have to live with the horror. My leg looks like a plucked vulture — complete with bowl cut fringe. It’s so in need of a toupee that the other legs have started called it Donald and wondering at what point it bans them from the stable. I’ve never been so grateful in my life not to be going outside — I’d catch pneumonia — not to mention be the laughing stock of the entire area.
My leg after its haircut
After recovering from the shock, mother was very pragmatic, making adult sounding sentiments like “if it needed to be done for us to find out the damage then it was necessary”. NECESSARY? Necessary would have been a neat trim not a haircut that makes my left leg resemble Dwayne Dibbley. Seriously people, if anyone out there loves me at all then I need leg warmers knitting. Like pronto.
Continued below…
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I’m not the only one of the team on a sick note either — we’re a man down with Cool New Shoes Man who quite frankly seems hell bent on stealing my sympathy on MY Facebook pages, inducing the Hovite Army into writing gushing comments about his well being. Mother too has been most concerned about him, but only I think because breaking in new farriers takes time. My mother can’t spell sympathy let alone dish it out. Trust me…
So I am bald, box rested and bored. My super powers seem to have gone AWOL, I have no cape, no mares with loose morals, mum won’t let me go and hang out with CNSM and Herman is coming to inject me with old lady juice. Which knowing my luck will transform me into a grey with dubious hearing and a penchant for bingo.
Life is pants.
Big granny pants in my case.
Laters,
Hovis
