Happy New Year to you all! I know many of you will have made New Year’s revolutions alongside your humans undoubtedly making a few for you (usually involving them having imbibed too much eggnog and thinking they can go from lesser to Hester in the next six months in my experience), but I’ve decided not to. It’s taken me a long while to realise this, but all this “New Year, new me” stuff is a waste of time – in my case, how on earth could I improve upon the epitome of equine perfection that I am?
To be clear, this does not apply to the mothership for whom the opportunities to self-improve are as limitless as the wily ways she’s had to use to charm her bank manager over the past few years. Let’s be honest, she’s a physical wreck who should have been euthanised years ago if the same criteria was used on humans as us – she’s lame on both legs, suffering from kissing spines, useless as a brood mare (although the one foal she did produce was a masterpiece), with way too many vices and is dangerous at every end. She would benefit from re-breaking and a year-long rehab and conditioning programme at a specialist facility, ideally located on the opposite side of the country from me. While they rebuild her body, they should also get her to acknowledge she ought not to ever ride anything more than a rocking horse as her natural habitat is the shallow end of the talent pool – with arm bands and a life preserver on. Thus, she should gift me to someone who can actually ride one side of me and who appreciates the freestyle, non-conformist elements to my talent and thus, doesn’t resort to questioning my ancestry every time I so much as commence the intro to River Dance.
Just because she requires a crane to put her own sock on does not mean jealously over my ability to get my knees that high should be allowed to continue this year – this is the year I put my hoof down. Until she calls me by my full Sunday name in that tone that would freeze alcohol and then to be honest, all bets are off…
She’s still out of action and will be for a few more weeks at least, but the good news is Aunty Em can’t be hauled into action either as we’re having work done on the arenas and the one thing Aunty Em won’t do is hack me – which either proves she has better survival instincts than the mothership or else she trusts me about as much as a stray cat in a fish mongers.
So while Cool New Shoes Man is coming today to fit me with new dancing shoes, I am safe for at least the next few weeks from actually doing anything more energetic than lowering my head to grass and sticking my tongue down the girl in the next fields tonsils. Although she has been seriously moody of late – I am thinking I may have goofed in answering the perennial “does my ass look fat in this winter rug” question – for reference, stating that it was great she’d followed instructions and it was indeed a heavy fill is NOT the answer you should go with. If relations got any frostier, Olaf would be asking for the next dance…
I’m thus off to think of ways to woo her back whilst leaning lovingly on Cool New Shoes Man to remind him how lucky he is to be this close to equine perfection, and to watch his little face turn red with embarrassment of how moved he feels.
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