Dear diary,

Happy New Year, people! Where 2016 has gone is a mystery but it has disappeared faster than a lickit in my stable at Christmas and now we have a brand new year. Apparently a happy one. Well someone could have fooled me…

I did have a nice Christmas; lots of carrots and a Swede from the “oops I’m out of date” shelf at the supermarket (mother leaves the labels on — so uncool) and even a lickit. Admittedly the lickit I destroyed in about 15 seconds by popping it out of its little pot and then biting it in half but what do they expect? I am not called the Destroyer for nothing…

The period between Christmas and New Year was a little less fun. Firstly because Aunty Em, who I had previously thought was the sane one of the group, has taken all leave of her senses and insisted we go hacking. Alone. Without a wingman. ALONE. As in with no one to defend my persons from the pheasants of doom nor the rascally rabbits. SOLO. Did I mention she wanted to go ALONE? The first time we went I may have got so excited that I might have pranced sideways down the back drive, executing a passage that would have made Mr Hester weep. Her boyfriend was with us on foot and I totally refute that a bird flew out of the hedge, I wheeled round and nearly jumped into his arms like an equine Scooby Doo. Like he would be any use in a crisis? Where was his steed from which he could defend me? There’s no use standing on the ground making “it’s only a bird” noises mate — I KNOW what those fearsome feathered fiends are capable of. The fact you don’t know is just an example of Darwinism in action and trust me I’m an expert at survival of the fittest…

Not satisfied with making me go once she promptly made me go again the next day so that she could get me “back in the zone”. Zone? What PLANET is the woman on? One does NOT go hacking alone. Ever. Simples. You have to have at least one sacrifice to throw under the wheels of the crop sprayer in case of extreme emergency. Those are the rules. End of.

THEN mother made my new year even worse. She decreed my leg isn’t getting any better (not aided by my amazing levels of bendiness and ability to scratch at it with both my teeth and my back hoof) so called Herman the German Needle Man. Herman arrived, looked at my leg from a distance of at least a metre, dodged a flying back leg (I just knew he was thinking about touching it) and then promptly gave me a shot of lala juice so that the only thing I was aware of was tweetie Pie doing a fly by around my ears. I would also like to point out that the fact I only have to be given the amount of sedative usually given to a 300kg pony (and I weigh over 750kg) is not a sign of being a light weight. It’s a sign of my extreme athleticism. Honest.

So I’m away looking at the shiny bubbles and pretty birdies while Herman the hatchet man and his willing accomplice shave off all my feathers and leave me with a strip of bare skin so large I look like a walking baby’s bottom. I had more needles shoved in me than a pin cushion and was generally scrubbed within an inch of my life. Mum looked very pleased with the outcome. A slightly smug look which lasted a full 24 hours until she fetched me in the following night and saw the mud pack I’d liberally plastered up the leg in question in a vain attempt to hide my near nudity. She wasn’t amused. I can’t print the words she used as I can’t spell them and certainly wouldn’t want to subject any of you to such language. But they were rude. Very rude. She didn’t look so smug any more, though.

Continued below…

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Herman also made mum run Dolly up and down to look at her legs. He decreed Dolly was doing very well for her age and that mother needed shooting. To be honest with the amount of bouncing that was going on I’m surprised he even remembered that he was looking at a horse. It was like watching a budget version of Baywatch with two large buoys trying to escape from a dingy. I may need therapy to recover.

So the battle of wills regarding my leg has continued all week with her trying to keep my leg clean and me trying to get firmly up her nose. I can share with you I am winning. Although apparently the vet is back out today so I might reserve judgement until later. Unlike mother, I know smug isn’t a good look.

I’m off to go and find some more mud and perfect my “who moi?” look for when Herman arrives.

Laters,

Hovis