Dear diary,

So it’s not exactly been the most brilliant of weeks. To put it mildly. To be fair, the weekend was OK with mum doing a small amount of work as we pranced around the puddles left by the excessive rain and then I’d had a good few sessions with Aunty Em.

Tuesday had started off positive when mum had hauled me in, given me a very quick groom, cried about my general “rock God of the big bog” hair do, my liberally applied mud masque and the frankly inspired tail re-arrangement and then put my travel boots on. A road trip?! I was so excited I nearly wee’d myself, but on remembering the unfortunate habit of concrete causing unsightly splash back I opted for a poo instead. Mum was thrilled…

So anyway a short while later a jaunty little wagon turned up driven by a smiley, petite lady who seemed very pleasant. She was, like most, blown away by my manliness and spent many minutes cuddling and fussing me. My day was looking up.

I was then asked to load into said jaunty little wagon which was quite interesting as I’ve never done a side door load before and therefore was a tad baffled when presented at the ramp. The nice lady told me where to put my feet so being the gentleman I am I swiftly complied and off we went.

We eventually arrived at a neat looking yard but I was starting to get the distinct impression that I had been duped. Because nice looking yard set up or not, the place had the distinct smell of needle men. A swift shout out to a dude in the stable wearing a super hero mask confirmed my suspicions. At this point I was not impressed — I had been thinking royal stud duty, a swift jaunt around Burghley or even a special guest appearance at HOYS (Horse of the Year Show) but no. What do I get to go to? The vets…

The only slight lift to my now black mood was the fact that the receptionists all recognised me — so hello to the Hambleton Vets receptionist and nurses, I know you’re reading this — and wanted pictures and cuddles. I don’t blame them. Fame is both a joy and a curse…

So eventually I was summoned and hopped off the lorry to be led into this weird contraption that looked like the starting stall things at the racecourse. Minus the race course. Oh and the other horses. And the jockey. So not really like a starting box at all really — just some evil device to keep equines less chilled than me from either whipping round and fleeing or booting the vet into next week. Which with hindsight (and truly here please appreciate the pun), I should have perhaps done.

So I met a very lovely vet nurse who equally knew who I was (as did the others in her team at Veterinary Vision — hello to you all too!) and a vet who hadn’t got a clue he was dealing with royalty and thus who regarded mum with that kindly look usually reserved for the mentally unstable when she tried to explain. I was then sent to la-la land with the cunning sleight of hand I usually associate with Herman and had lots and lots of needles shoved in and around my eyes. That combined with the endless eye drops which had my eyes streaming more than Halle Berry doing an Oscar acceptance speech and it’s fair to say I didn’t exactly look my best.

So the end result — as the Hovite Army already know — is a) I am a total superstar with a trust in humans that’s a testament to a one in a million temperament (why thank you, I knew that) and b) I’m pretty much as blind as a bat. Which to be fair is probably why I’ve put up with mother for so long…

I’ve got a massive cataract on my left eye effectively meaning I can’t see much at all and a large one on my right eye right in the middle of my lens meaning really all I’ve got is my peripheral vision to rely on. So I have demanded an apology for Dolly — I’ve not been perving all these years, I was wondering if she was a tree…

So after much crying, sniffling and sobbing (and that was just the lovely lady from Equimove who transported me), mum has made a decision. The wonderfully clever vet (well, he seemed clever and used very big words that made even mother look impressed, so I’m guessing he probably knows what he’s doing) is recommending that I have an operation on my left eye to see if they can save my sight. It’s a massive risk as I’m not exactly a thoroughbred and to my horror I’m not judged a spring chicken any more either, but rest assured, I have absolutely no intention of shuffling off my mortal coil anytime soon. I would like some vibes and general prayer type things but mainly aimed at keeping mother from embarrassing me completely — she’s a tad over-emotional when it comes to me on a good day and it’s fair to say it’s not a good day.

So I intend to document my progress to help those of you going through the same thing and those of you with a desire to see the inner workings of my big brown eyes… I’ve fought back from a leg injury that nearly ended my life — I’m not giving up on the British Eventing squad just because I can’t see. So keep everything crossed, mum will keep you posted on my Facebook pages and I will continue to write my diary — admittedly perhaps in braille.

Continued below…

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I’m off to convince Dolly I need to practise with her becoming my eyes — and yes that absolutely does require my licking her ears. Not my fault — I can’t see!

Laters,
Hovis