Dear Diary,

Well it’s all over – no more super-charged blood injections for me whilst we see if this set have made me into Hovis hyper-charged horse. Which to be honest is a relief — I’m not sure I could cope with Herman and mother carrying on abusing me much longer without having to resort to serious action — like hiding under a bush…

Friday dawned and once again I was dragged reluctantly from the field by mother towards the ominous outline of Herman’s van, tied to my stable so I couldn’t escape and subjected to abuse about my waist line.

I was a trifle surprised, therefore, when instead of immediately sending me into la-la land with his sleep juice, Herman turned his trade mark baseball cap around and gave me a rendition of the opening bars of “ice ice baby”. It’s fair to say he should stick to his day job…

When mother had stopped trying not to wee herself laughing, it became clear that Herman had read my last diary entry (is nothing sacred?) and realised he had failed in the musical department. The fact that he admitted someone had had to explain my little joke about iRAP to him worried me immensely – after all mother lets this man violate my person with sharp implements.

Whilst taking a cautionary step back from the injection yielding nut job, I mentally struck off both rapper and comedian from his future career options list. Seconds later, after he attacked my feathers once more with a set of clippers leaving a mess in his wake that Edward scissor hands would have winced at, I also struck hairdresser off the same list. He’d better pray this vet lark works out because to be honest the options for a career change are looking limited…

So enthralled was I by the devastation of my feathers I didn’t even notice him sneak up and inject me with his cunning sleepy “night, night” juice and so before you could say “ice is back with a brand new invention” I was away with the fairies.

Once more I woke up to legs bandaged up like a ballerina in traction and a sore neck from yet more injections. Honestly if he pokes any more needles into me, I’m going to start to look like a watering can when I drink; I feel like a giant hairy pin cushion.

Mother tells me to suck it up; it’s for my own good — ha! I’d like to see her be that brave when faced with the sized needles failed rapper boy has been shoving into me of late. At least my bandages matched and were blue this week — what’s left of my street cred is already high tailing it out of sight without being subjected to pink bandages (and yes mother is that evil before any of you try to defend her).

Let the games begin

So I’m now allowed to start “walking out on hacks”, a statement from Herman that had mother laughing so hard I thought she’d been raiding his drugs box while he was massacring my feathers. She did then ask if he’d supply tranquilizers but I’m assuming they’re for her?

Aunty Becky has been duly summoned so hopefully we can get out and about again very soon, although I am concerned that I’m not back up to full strength, and I have seen a few advance scouts of the yellow perils lurking in the hedge line at the top of the drive. The sneaky little monsters think I can’t see them but I have an inbuilt sensor for all dangers — those that move and those that don’t…

I’d also like to take the opportunity to thank the nice people at NAF for sending me a lovely box of goodies to help me overcome the horrors of feather massacre, Herman’s singing and mother playing with my Hovis sausage.

For future reference, the food and treats are great, the shampoo stuff less so (although mother was chuffed to bits) and could you throw in a loose morals mare as well next time? Mother posted pictures of my stash on my Facebook pages and everyone seemed very excited about me having a bath.

For the record people, I am not here for your amusement, or to provide some sort of equine wet and wild video. If you want up close and personal shots of wet feathers go ask a duck. Perverts…

Anyway I’m off to persuade Dolly to go and trample those sneaky yellow perils whilst I provide management oversight – from a safe distance…

Laters,

Hovis