So my views last week on how to avoid schooling, jumping or cross-country (although why anyone would want to get out of cross-country is totally beyond me) have gone down a storm with my equine army of followers but not so well with their mums. I have no idea why? I was merely making suggestions born from many days and evenings being made to prance about like an over-grown feathered fairy while mother fantasises about being some stressage diva — trust me, I KNOW what it’s like to be made to do things you don’t want to do. I however am doomed to be lumbered with a mother as cunning and devious as she is portly and lacking in talent. Mind you, Aunty Emily is of a similar temperament and seems hell bent on doing far too much flat work for my liking, although to be fair she has actually started leaving the ground — sometimes even with me…
Frenchie seems to like jumping although she and I did have a distinct disagreement the other week over speed and general tempo resulting in her suggesting to mother that I wasn’t completely level. This in turn led to an ashen-faced mother turning up at the yard and making Frenchie and I run up and down the driveway while mum stared at my feet in a way that would make an untrained observer think she knew what she was doing.
I did briefly consider limping just for fun but then reconsidered when I remembered the tears and rivers of snot last time she thought I was lame — not to mention Herman the German needle man would probably turn up and shove needles in me just for fun, or worse still, shave my feathers while wearing his baseball hat backwards and doing some God awful American rap (and yes, he HAS indeed done this…). I did settle for deliberately running precisely behind Frenchie so mother had to keep altering position like some sort of frog with strained thigh muscles in order to see my manly gait.
The conclusion arrived at was I will never been 100% perfect but I am normal for me — which apparently was good enough for mother having been reassured by Herman, his much more attractive side kick and the boss lady that I’m not made of glass and will thus not break.
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Back at the yard, serious discussions are now being had: Mother and the other mothers at the yard are currently locked in high level debate about how much longer we can in fact live out 24/7 while us equines debate far more serious issues such as which radio station we’re going to listen to and whether I’m allowed my treat ball at night. Apparently the fact that my delicate kicks to remove the treats from the aforementioned treat ball cause bangs so loud the reverberations could be mistaken for a side effect of fracking, means that the others dislike me having it. Personally I think they’re just jealous because I have two thanks to generous gifts from my fans. I have one in the field but mum gets fed up with me kicking it to my mates and her thus funding the treats for the entire yard. Mum is a killer of joy and happiness.
Talking of joy and happiness, are you all ready for the cult event Your Horse is Alive? Stay tuned over the next few days for exciting news about what’s happening while I’m down there and don’t forget to come and see me in person. Gifts, offerings to my feathers and the particulars of any and all willing and loose moralled mares can be left with my minions while I pose for photos and cuddles with you.
Be there or be square!