Dear Diary
I has NEWS! BIG news! Amazing news! I am no longer bored in a box, but am officially FREE!!! Well if freedom is a field the size of a postage stamp with minimal grass and absolutely no chance of hooning around in my usual fashion that is…
So it was last Friday that my seven weeks of box rest boredom came to an end. Just after lunch time I was treated to the much missed sight of Cool New Shoes Man (CNSM) walking into the barn. For those of you who are unaware, CNSM is now a lesser man than he used to be having selflessly sold one of his kidneys to fund my recovery. Well that’s what he told me had happened – I’m pretty sure mothers unladylike snorting was less due to his wildly inaccurate account of the situation and more to do with hay fever…
Dad had come with mum for reasons that became clear a short while later, so we three men hung out being manly while mother did her usual impression of a headless chicken with OCD, rushing about with her transport – the broom…
We went nice and slowly on my feet and since I’m not in work for a while at least then the decision was made to take my front dancing shoes off (I’ve not worn any on the back for years – I’m well ‘ard like that).
After CNSM had finished it became clear that all three of them were waiting for someone. A short time later, as the rousing strains of some god awful German music could be heard, it became crystal clear who the much awaited one was.
Herman was on fine form – which was clearly more to do with seeing me and less to do with him making a mini-Herman – and insisted I was head collared and led out of my box of boredom. Here mother made rookie mistake number 1: putting a normal headcollar on me. Something which was to come back to haunt her in pretty short order as Herman instructed Dad to walk me down the drive.
I stopped for a mouthful of grass.
Dad urged me forwards.
I stopped for another mouth full of grass.
Dad urged me forwards with more vigour.
I decided if he wanted forward I would give him forward and executed a walk to canter transition so smooth and swift it would have had Viagra hiding in his haynet. Enthused by my burst of speed, the ginger prancing high maintenance one decided that we should do formation jogging and took position on my right flank as wingman on the other side of the fence.
By this stage it was clear from the babble of voices that everyone was appreciating my display so I took it up a notch: I pranced, piaffed, pirouetted and paraded down the path. Ginger dude copied me (although to be fair with more girlie snorting and a lot less dramatic feather wafting), resulting in mother questioning his and my ancestry with the ferocity of a tiger with piles and dad hanging on to my lead rope with the tenacity of a No Direction fan hanging onto Harry Styles’ jeans leg.
Herman was ecstatic and was heard crying with joy that he was unaware of my ability to move so beautifully. By this stage CNSM was in hysterics, half the yard was neighing and whinnying their appreciation and mother was still swearing having not once paused for breath.
I finished my display with a vertical rear above Dad’s head and awaited my applause.
It’s fair to say I’m still waiting…
Herman was so impressed however he whipped me back inside for some photos of my leg which seemed to necessitate CNSM and mum dressing up like they were playing doctors and nurses (which for the record is NOT an image I ever need to have in my head, like EVER), drugging me AGAIN and faffing about with his laptop.
The end result of all this excitement however was a decision to allow me to be turned out in a small paddock. And I mean SMALL.
After my impressive display of athletics, mum was left with enough dope to stun a rhino and a steely glint of determination in her eyes. I am still unsure who Herman meant to have been given the dope – mother or me…
Operation “Turn Hurricane Hovis out” commenced the following day with mum and the boss lady running about with enough electric fencing to circumnavigate the globe, a lot of poles and the air of women trying to cage a T-Rex.
I was drugged, violated (if you’ve been given dope and ever see your mum with marigolds on then RUN), bridled and then cautiously led out. By this stage I was so high and so traumatised by the sausage cleaning, I’d lost control of my own feet so mum ended up propping me up and steering me like a drunk into a kebab shop on a Saturday night on pay day.
I was left standing smiling, slightly stoned and seriously satisfied with life: I have grass (well a bit), my mates and my freedom. Life is good.
Mum is now away on holidays so there will be no diary next week as she has refused to pay for a temporary secretary for me and after the last laptop incident I’m not allowed to type my own musings. Those of you on my facebook pages can I’m sure expect some updates from Aunty Emily who is in charge in Mum’s absence.
So until next time,
Laters,
Happy happy Hovis
PS: Apologies for the late arrival of today’s dairy entry, blame H&H’s web ed!
