My name is Hovis and for the record I know I am a horse. I am not under any illusion that I am in any way some sort of overgrown cock-a-poodle or some other mongrel with an exotic name.
I am 705kg of magnificent equine muscle of unknown breeding and impressive feathers. So would someone mind pointing this out to mother?
I know it’s sort of become our “thing” for me to wait near the gate and for her to waddle/run like an enthusiastic overweight penguin up the field towards my electric fencing; for me to give her half a field’s head start before unleashing the full heavyweight power of my rear end into bounding down the field after her, and for us to run together side by side down the remaining half of the field like a cross species remake of a scene from “Lassie come home”.
But, and it’s a big “but”, I am the Destroyer and like my namesake I take a while to stop. Which isn’t a problem.
Apart from when mother has slithered to a halt in front of the electric fence which she was so kindly about to move back for me and I cannon into her.
I did think about pointing out that with the amount of height and forward propulsion she got, she should think about a career as a stunt woman. But I swiftly re-evaluated my options as she lay across the flattened remains of my grass restricting barrier, twitching as a high number of volts made acquaintance with her bum.
With hindsight nearly standing on her as I swiftly moved in on the grass that was now freely available might not have been my smartest move either, but what can I say? It was grass and since the amount of swearing seemed to indicate she was still alive and thus didn’t need any form of CPR, it left my mouth free to do more important things — like eat…
It’s fair to say the atmosphere between us since that little incident has been more frigid than a pair of knickers left on a washing line in Siberia. So I was highly glad to see Aunty Becky this week, back from a minor injury involving stairs and an inability to come down them all without landing flat on her bum.
I say “highly glad” but the amount of poncing she demanded may have taken the shine off my delight rather swiftly. I took revenge by giving her lots of counter canter which may have amused me immensely in the short term, but may backfire rather spectacularly. I’m not mystic Mog, but I suddenly see more lessons from ginger mare’s mother in my future…
Between Ms Bossy and Mother Bruised, the women in my life are not entirely feeling the love for me this week and no amount of doe eyed, long eyelash fluttering appears to be making this any better.
Ah well it could be worse — I could be coated in mud with black feathers, sticky buds in my fur and a new rip in my rug. And mother could be due back from Scotland tonight. Oh poo…