Dear Diary

Well it’s official, spring is here. I don’t need the weather man to tell me these things, the signs are all there — girl birds doing rude things with boy birds (which, by the way, does put a boy off his stride when they’re getting jiggy with it on the school fence as you leg yield past), naked grazing, the grass starting to actually think about growing, the invasion of the evil yellow perils, oh and mother asking Herman the German to stick a WHOPPING great needle in my neck…

This weekend saw the hottest day of the year so far and a yard full of us all sans clothing like a yeti nudist beach and a driveway full of those yellow things. Any reports that I am refusing to graze the fence line nearest to said drive are false lies spread by pansy propaganda. Honest…

With it being so lovely and warm I was looking forward to a nice hack out, perhaps a gentle mooch around the block with Foxy or my wingman Billy, but no mother had other ideas. Which roughly translates as “mother made me ponce about the school in the sweltering heat until I was sweating like a Shetland at Tesco”. The only salvation came when Foxy entered the school to work at the same time trussed up in so many bits of string she looked like a victim of an accident in a skipping rope factory. I valiantly tried to ignore her bondage style get up and manfully managed not to fall over my own feet perving at watching her bum.

Mind you I had so many flies dive bombing my inner ear canal, I was shaking my head like Stevie Wonder sitting on a washing machine — it’s a wonder I didn’t crash into her and get tied together like a large hairy equine version of a cat’s cradle. On second thoughts, now there’s an idea…

She was so distracted by all her ropes and pullies that she did at least forget to try to karate kick my head in, so whilst I might have a cricked neck I do at least still have ownership of all my own front teeth. Which is a good thing.

What wasn’t a good thing was mum paying that sadistic German man to come and give me my first set of injections for my legs. Why an injection for my legs has to be a) quite so BIG and b) given in my neck is beyond me. He is SO sneaky too. He says nice things about me, moves in for a quick cuddle and WALLOP have a needle in your neck matey.

I would employ similar tactics using my front right hoof but mother gives me a shake of the head collar and that look and the thought is relegated into my “fantasy” place — which also includes a night in an all inclusive barn with my famous American racing mare admirer and an entourage of energetic mares. It’s about as likely to ever become reality as that too…

As much as I like Herman, I don’t like his company when he’s doing things to me and his cheerful “see you in a fortnight” goodbye to mother doesn’t bode well. Mum says she’s looking after my legs and making sure they stay healthy. I am tempted to point out I have four of them and am happy to take a risk but I doubt it would get me anything other than a sore nose.

Mum was last seen reading the instructions of some special stuff that Herman told her would make me “go out like a light” and muttering something about how to get the stuff under the tongue. I am a little perturbed about this and have made a pledge not to open my mouth — unless it’s to eat, drink or allow Foxy to shove her tongue down my throat, all of which are things essential to my well being. Allowing mother to drug me in order to clean the backs of my knees or even worse chase my chipolata up the Hovis man sausage cave is wrong on more levels than a lift at a swinger’s party. There should be a law against it.

So with that in mind I’m off to hide. I’m so concerned I’m even considering asking the armies of yellow perils if I can camouflage myself amongst them to hide. If I put mum’s yellow bucket (bought as a de-sensitising aid for me — is the woman nuts? It’s a bucket) on my head and stick my tongue out, I think I could do a great impression of a daffodil. What do you think?

Laters

Hovis