My name is Hovis; I am unable to take an effective selfie and I like to electrocute my mother. I am a bad horse.
I’m also funnier than a hyena on laughing gas with a sense of comedy timing so razor sharp that it would have made the fork handles dudes look like comedic sloths on sleeping pills.
Because if you’re going to head butt your mother into high voltage electric fencing, then you’ve got to at least wait until she’s just stuck her hands into your water bucket to retrieve the hoof pick you dropped in it for her, before acquainting her substantial derriere with the bitey white rope.
Trust me on this – water and electric don’t mix and the effect is equivalent to dropping a cat into bathwater – all hissing indignation and seriously bad hair. Simply hysterical to watch…
The one thing I should probably learn, however, is that mother is a master cook – and revenge is her speciality dish.
Hovis fails to master the art of the selfie…
Over the weekend I was released from my postage stamp paddock and walked back to the yard with mother urging me to walk nicely, with my head up and concentrate on where I put my feet. I did listen. Briefly…
I can probably report without fear of being accused of over exaggeration that mother wasn’t entirely thrilled with the sideways prancing, the on point piaffing, nor indeed the languid leg yielding that I treated her to most of the way back to the yard.
I have long since resigned myself to the fact that being called “a big footed buffoon with the intellect of an amoeba and the survival instincts of an emo lemming” is not indeed the statement of affection my once young and innocent self hoped for.
Once arriving at the yard, unscathed despite mother’s dire warnings, she rewarded my stressage brilliance with a cold bath, much feather scrubbing and some tail pulling. I was then unceremoniously dumped back into my stable where I undid her good work with a good rub on the stable wall, thus creating the on-trend “bog brush” tail and punk mane. She was so thrilled.
It turns out while I was channelling my inner Nicky Clarke, that mum and the boss lady were re-fencing my field to allow me to progress from a postage stamp to a millionaire’s London garden – “bijou” I believe is the marketing expression.
None-the-less I now have more room to move, even allowing for the double fencing on both sides to stop me enthusiastically engaging with dolly on my left and prancy ginger dude on my right. Apparently if I don’t come up hoping lame over the next few weeks whilst being allowed more space then work might re-start. Which is good.
What is even more good is I’ve now been cleared for re-commencing my public appearances starting with the Lincolnshire show in June (21st and 22nd). I’m not cleared for any form of ridden appearances yet, but apparently meet and greet is fine so if you’re heading to the event then do please come and say hello! Although if none of you could mention the still decimated state of my rear feather then I would be grateful.
Aunty Em, Dad and Mother will also be there but you don’t have to make a fuss of them– we all know who the real star is…
So I’m off to stretch my legs, practise my pout and pray for a growth spurt in the feather department.