Dear diary,

Can we just make one thing very clear? Just because I am a big, manly, muscled equine machine does not mean I’m not sensitive.

And I am.

Sensitive that is.

In all ways — my feelings and my body.

Why everyone who says this or hears this then falls about laughing is a mystery and frankly one that is most offensive and hurtful. Take for instance the ongoing issue with my leg. It’s not my fault I have skin like a baby’s bottom which is as sensitive as the large soul it covers. It’s not my fault that every effort by Herman the German Needle Man, his glamorous stand in, the boss lady or indeed my evil mother is being thwarted by the delicate nature of both my outer epidermis but also the position of said issue on my body. There’s absolutely no need for mother to use unflattering terms about me or use the word “special” with that slight edge to it that leaves me under no illusion that she means it in a positive way. There’s absolutely no reason for the glamorous vet (who I had previously preferred to evil needle boy) to use the word “normal” and then sigh dramatically and state “silly me, this is Hovis we’re talking about isn’t it?”. There’s absolutely no reason for the boss lady to look at my manly frame and then my mangled leg and look like she wants to weep for a week.

So OK I might on occasion have a very good chew of my leg, I may possibly on occasion of scratched at it so badly with my back hoof that I might have mistaken for a dog with fleas. I may remove creams, honey, sprays and all other attempts at treatment with either my nose, my tongue or my back feathers and I may have been repeatedly accused of not helping myself; I do however refute the fact that I’m in cahoots with Herman to get mother to fund the digging of the moat around Herman Towers. By all accounts (mainly mother’s accounts) I’ve cost her that much in vets bills over the years she’s convinced she should have the right to move in, but then this is my mother we’re talking about — i.e. ever prone to the dramatics…

Continued below…

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Anyway the short story is it is still not healed up and mother is starting to have kittens. It has been about three months now and mum is clearly envisaging gangrene setting in and my whole leg falling off. Because it’s firmly behind my knee then bandaging it is difficult and I am something of a genius at removing any form of protection — I know I shouldn’t, but seeing their little crestfallen faces is quite hilarious. Herman and the much easier on the eye vet both think it is healing slowly but despite their endless training and clear intellect, mother still would rather listen to the harbinger of doom that appears to permanently reside on her left shoulder. She was last heard muttering about a month of cross tying me and hobbling my back legs to the wall. Before the more kindly animal rights protectors among you launch an international rescue mission, I’m pretty sure she was joking. I am practising Morse code with my nose on the stable door just in case she wasn’t so keep an ear out won’t you?

Laters,

Hovis