Dear diary,

So it has not been a good week. You know I said the other week that mum was panicking there was something wrong with me? That I could foresee lots of trot ups and possibly the vet in my future? Yep I was right. You know how I said that I was just getting on a bit and that I was perfectly ok, just in need of a bit of warm up and some engine oil? Yep, I was totally wrong.

So the other night Herman had dutifully been summoned to his most important patient (just for absence of doubt, that’s me, people) and had not liked what he saw. No, I don’t mean the sight of Aunty Em walking me up and down, but mainly my left hind. He had to phone mum as soon as he’d finished which would be enough to worry the bravest of men even with their big girl pants on and on a good day. This was clearly not going to be a good day. We walked up and down, he looked worried. We did flexion tests, he looked positively perturbed. We took an X-ray, he looked positively suicidal. It was not looking good.

He put me onto immediate box rest, explained the situation to Aunty Em (who went sheet white) and between them they prayed for one of them to volunteer to ring mother. I don’t know if they drew straws, if Herman admitted to himself that he was the one living in the house which mum had already paid for the east wing to be built or if Aunty Em told him to grow a pair but either way Herman had to ring mother. I believe there were a lot of tears and some snot involved — and that was just Herman…

The long and short of it is he spotted something nasty-looking on the X-ray on my left hind but could only see it on one X-ray angle. So on Sunday I pack my bags and go to horsepital for a few days where they will fill me with radioactive substances and turn me into a superhero mutant horse and I will become Hoverine (which is my version of events). Or alternatively I will go into horsepital and they will do a bone scan at which point mother will either go from devastated to suicidal or we’ll be back to the drawing board (mother’s version of events). Either way, I’m going to be in for a few days and mum can’t come to see me as apparently I will be glowing in the dark. Herman did point out I was already the size and weight of a nuclear reactor but I suspect he was only being brave because mother was at the opposite end of the country…

Continued below…

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So I’m clearly in need of much sympathy, get well soon cards, stacks of carrots and some mares with nursing skills and no morals at all. Box rest looms long and boringly on the horizon as well as mother doing a lot of sobbing. It’s not helped by previous history with my older brother Sid (the stunning, black, moody looking one now ruling the roost over the rainbow bridge), so she’s a tad hysterical. I, in the meantime, remain philosophical — I get a few nights away in a plush pad with lots of nice people and possibly a few mares in need of comfort. I come back and have to hang out in the barn listening to the radio and letting mum and Aunty Em snot all over me. I will heal because I am the Destroyer and failure is not an option. I owe a certain lady a lesson and Geoff Billington the chance to ride a superstar again. I have plans to rescue the British eventing team and the Wobbleberry challenge to complete — this is not how I intend to end my eventing career. This is not the end.

Wish me luck for next week and can you send get well parcels to my manager (mother) or to Bransby — for the record I like turnips as well as carrots. Flowers however — not so much.

Laters,

Hovis