Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘a turbo-charged trot up’

  • Dear diary

    I have BIG news! As I told you all last Friday, Herman the German needle man came to see me and mother, to see if we could end this argument that mother and I have been having for weeks — me saying I was fit to trot and her arguing that I wasn’t.

    He arrived and promptly told me I looked very well — all handsome and shiny. Well thank you Mr Needle man, I’ve been taking supplements from a lovely company who have been sending me lots of presents. Mum however as usual heard “fat” instead of “well” and started plotting how to restrict my grass intake. How do I set about getting her a hearing test? If I had any less grass, I will be the size of a Shetland by Christmas…

    Anyway after reassuring mother that no he didn’t think I was fat (neeerrr neerrr mother) Herman made us go outside and walk up and down.

    Which is boring.

    So I might have slouched along a little with the unhurried air of a 40-year-old pit pony pulling a hearse.

    Mother glared at me.

    Herman asked for trot.

    I perked up.

    I may have done a walk-to-trot transition that was so turbo-charged the sonic boom was heard in Russia.

    Mother may have been left trailing in my wake and so might have water-skied down the drive behind me. Well more concrete-skied.

    She may have used some very rude words.

    Herman asked for a re-run which I swear was for his entertainment purposes only. Taking into account the fact that she hadn’t liked me leading, I ran behind mother the whole way back. Apparently Herman’s suggestion that he couldn’t see me around her ample derriere, was not his brightest hour. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realise that his life expectancy was shortening by the minute, while mother plotted what to do with his body…

    Herman then asked for me to be lunged on the grass. He held me while mother went to fetch a lunge whip. I may have taken the opportunity to assist the boss lady in creating a bowling green, smooth lawn by selflessly chomping down all stray tufts of grass. I am nothing if not thoughtful.

    Mother came back to lunge me and I took to the request with enthusiasm. So much enthusiasm mother spun round like a weather vane in a force ten gale. I can’t say with certainty that Herman was in hysterics as I was going that fast — he was a mere blur in my peripheral vision, but he did seem to be doubled over at one point. Maybe he’s asthmatic?

    As we changed direction I may have taken the opportunity to do some more landscape gardening of the boss lady’s lawn, and can neither confirm nor deny, that mid trot I may have ground to a halt to grab another small mouthful. All I can say is that any further downward movement of my head, did seem to lead to a stinging pain across my bum and mother yielding her lunge whip like a lion taming circus hand.

    Anyway after much lip chewing from mother and much dramatic sighing from Herman, he announced he had good news and bad news. The bad news was that one of us was clearly past all medical help and the lameness issues were so severe that he had no choice but to sadly recommend euthanasia. The good news was that I was fine….

    He was very pleased with me, said I was fit to start trotting again and he’d come back to see me in six weeks. He then suggested a very expensive course of joint injection supplements which he announced mother could inject herself. WHAT? The woman can’t be trusted not to fall over her own feet and he’s letting her shove needles in my neck?! Even worse, each injection is £100 each so in his words “don’t mess it up”. I think the man needs therapy (a view further enhanced when he proceeded to start singing to me — although thankfully there was no rapping this time).

    He also suggested I went onto a joint supplement, but when mother showed him the presents I get from the very nice company, he said to carry on using that as it was just as good as anything he’d give me. He did ask how a carthorse like me had attracted the attention of such a high profile company. I didn’t dignify such stupidity with an answer. I mean seriously?

    So the Destroyer sets sail once more. I’m apparently only allowed to build up slowly to half an hour of trotting at a time — ha! I haven’t got a watch so how can I possibly know how long I have been trotting for? I’m also not supposed to trot on hard surfaces and should trot on grass and in fields. Herman has clearly not got the memo that says the only things we do in the boss lady’s fields is stubble race and I can assure him that’s not at trot. Still the news has perked me up no end, so thank you for all the vibes and good wishes on my Facebook page.

    I’m off to canoodle with Dolly before doing some high impact trot work up and down my fence line, in the vain hope the vibrations knock loose the electric fencing — that mother has moved to prevent me getting at grass. Any news tonight that fracking has commenced in Lincolnshire will be completely unrelated…



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