Dear diary,

My name is Thompson, Hovis Thompson. By day mild mannered Clydesdale with big baby seal eyes, fluffy white feathers and a manly physique hidden underneath my “normal horse” rugs. By night however I am Hoverine, a masked cape crusader with x-ray vision, a disarming line in rapier like wit and ability to empty a bank balance in weeks.

I have once again defied all veterinary opinion and after only a week or so have obliterated a huge cyst in my left eye with nothing more than the power of my mind. Oh and shed load of very expensive drugs. And a bit of a hand from the vet. And the boss lady. And possibly mother. The veterinary wizard Chris is thrilled, Herman the Germans less needlie glamorous assistance is thrilled, the boss lady is thrilled and mother is in therapy.

It’s fair to say it’s pretty obvious to all who know me that I’m feeling pretty good. I felt well enough to take mum grass skiing the other day which really excited her — the fact she’s looking at back surgery shouldn’t in anyway lessen her enjoyment of being dragged across a field sideways by “0.75tonnes of muscled mindless menace” — her words clearly not mine. Mother does love alliteration. Oh and gross over-exaggeration…

On Saturday I piaffed back to the yard like Michael Flatley at a rave and demonstrated once again then when unencumbered by mother’s gloriously awful riding that Viagra quite frankly learnt everything he knew from me.

On Sunday I executed a half pass onto the drive and proceeded to come in with such impressive one time changes that even my fellow breed traitor Boston would have been green with envy. And dude it looks even better with feathers — they waft mate, seriously you should try it. Mother had tears of joy on her face and I’m sure the half a packet of tramadol she was witnessed swallowing was only to sooth the pain in her heart at realising she’ll never be a good enough rider to take me to the Olympics…

On Monday Herman’s less German sidekick came again, sent me to la-la land and stained my eye a lovely green. My mother promptly posted this halfway across my Facebook pages and I am sure contributed to a lot of people losing their dinners. But the end result was NO cyst. Everyone was ecstatic — not least me because I foolishly thought this then meant I could take Madonna’s bra off my head, return it to its rightful owner, remove the tubing from my face that’s making me look like something Hannibal Lector would be scared of and possibly work on getting Dolly to snog me rather than run screaming on the opposite direction.

Sadly that wasn’t meant to be as although I’m not having as many drugs I’ve still got a load of different ones to take so the tubing stayed.

So on Wednesday I decided I am far more qualified than the vets to make that decision and so tried to remove it myself, effectively getting a hole in it such that the drugs that mother claims cost more than champagne per 10ml shot out and down my neck. Boss lady rang mum, mum rang the vet and the vet came. All three were not amused. I now have new tubing and ear ache. And trust me the two are totally related…

Continued below…

On Thursday my mother posted my for sale advert. I’m sure she doesn’t really mean it? I think? Maybe? What am I going to do if she does mean it? Can someone who has moral-less mares and money please purchase me? I really don’t want to end my days in a supermarket lasagne which is where I can see this going. I do have one insurable leg and one eye that might still possibly be covered. And I have an artificial eye, mutated blood and a superhero mask? I am a serious bargain here people.

So the vet’s due back out today and mother is looking harassed so I might just go and hide somewhere until sedation has occurred — and for the absence of doubt I do mean mothers.

Laters,
Hovis