Dear diary,

Well what a week it has been – up and down and all over the place. And that’s just been the weather!

So last Friday I told you Herman the German Needle Man was coming to stick yet more needles in my neck so I braced myself (figuratively and literally). What I wasn’t expecting was a visit from an old friend: well she’s not old but she did abandon me for a life with world class prancing ponies pulling carriages – that’s right Aunty Becky visited! I was so thrilled to see her I abandoned my usual calm demeanour and may possibly have whinnied to mum and her as they came up the lane. I will of course deny this until my dying day…

My excitement at seeing her however swiftly evaporated when I was marched back to the barn and the tack came out. It appears that Aunty Becky wanted to remember what it’s like to ride a proper horse after months of playing with this high stepping foreign river dance rejects. Sadly she also knows how well I can do stressage when I want to, so we had nearly an hour of Ms bossy breeches reminding me of the fact she won’t carry my head for me, expects me to read her mind via the subtle shift of her derriere and won’t tolerate sloppy transitions. She rode with no stirrups, made rude comments about my width and generally bossed me about like she’d not left me like a jilted bride at the altar all those months ago. I rapidly got over my joy of seeing her.

Mother watched on with gleeful amusement while mini mother got bored watching my display of stressage brilliance and went picking flowers. It’s important you remember this – there was a slight incident involving them later.

So no sooner had my stressage misery ended than I heard the sounds of an approaching van and some very, very every dodgy cowboy music. This apparently heralded the arrival of Herman the German.

Mother’s opening gambit was it was a good job he’s such a good vet because with music taste like that she ought to move me to another practice just on principle. It set the tone for the rest of Herman’s visit with him trading insults with mother about her less than skinny legs and my masculine frame all while displaying his usual sleight of hand and shoving needles in my neck. Honestly if he and his trusty sidekick put their hand trickery to the forces of good instead of evil they could entertain small children the world over — pulling rabbits out of hats is a highly under rated skill.

While mother and Herman bantered good naturedly about the bill and the fact my treatment over the past few years has paid for the west wing of Herman Towers, Aunty Becky set about me with a brush and comb with a steely glint in her eye which didn’t bode well. Sure enough within minutes I had a haircut that Dudley Dooright would have been proud of and no tail hair. There was so much of me on the floor that mini-mother thought it was a dog. Herman disappeared with a squeal of tyres and some music from Jungle Book blaring out. Something to do with elephants? I didn’t get it but then his brain is a mystery at the best of times – I sometimes wonder if the fumes from the drugs cupboard are to blame or it’s just genetic…

So as you can imagine I was now pooped, punctured, pulled and preened. I was less than amused.

I was led back out to the field by the three witches of Eastwick and mother set about poo picking. Mini mother went to help leaving Aunty Becky in charge of her precious bunch of flowers. What can I say? The woman held them under my nose – how was I supposed to know she meant me to smell them? The expression of utter horror on her face was priceless and watching her attempt to explain the mystery of the disappearing flowers to a very switched on, nearly-four-year-old was almost worth the needles.

Continued below…


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Mother gave her a you’re-on-you-own-here-mate look and legged it from the scene of the crime cackling like a hyena on nitrous oxide. Mini mother was not amused but forgave me. Forgiveness for Aunty Becky is apparently still pending…

I’m off to try and grow my fringe back out and await mini mother’s return – I’m hoping for roses this time…

Laters,

Hovis