Dear Diary
Once again I write to you looking like a shorn sheep, a cute looking baby seal with fine grey fur and big brown eyes. Yes once again, I am a walking advert for Greenpeace. All I need is some snow and I could be the cute Christmas card you send to your aged aunty. It’s NOT fair. Why can’t I look all majestic and manly when clipped, like my older brothers used to?
Why do I end up looking like something from a Disney film, that has everyone in a 10-mile radius cooing “ahhhh” every time they see me? I am the Destroyer not an equine version of Thumper. Billy said it could be worse, I could be an equine version of Dumbo. I am still ignoring him…
The haircut has come about because I apparently was turning into a sweaty mess if I even as much as thought about exercise, or indeed about the ladies. Well in my mind, there was an easy answer to at least half of that issue but no, mother enlisted Aunty Alison to shave me again. After all the effort I’ve put into growing my magnificent coat back, I would have hoped she could have been more restrained, but alas Edward clipper hands has struck again.
The only good news is Foxy seems to like me clipped, although I am working on a new angle with her at the moment. I decided that the reason ladies don’t fancy me is because I am too nice and a little too keen. So the other night when mum brought me in, Foxy called out to me, I stood by the stable, she kissed me, I kissed her back and then walked away — leaving her snogging thin air behind me. Even my mother was amazed.
The next night I repeated my “treat ‘em mean” approach.
She seemed keener than ever.
The next night I repeated it again.
She ignored me.
The next night I decided maybe I was perhaps being too mean.
I kissed her.
She bit me.
I have gone back to the drawing board…
Things might not be going well with my equine ladies, but at least mother and Aunty Becky seem pleased with me. Even if Aunty B is persisting in trying to turn me into a complete dressage fairy. Just because I can do it, doesn’t mean I want to do it. I want to be on the racecourse like those fellow fairy flyers last weekend, hurtling down the final furlong with that Ruby Emerald dude perched on my back like a pea on a drum. Mum made vague promises of trying to get me invited next year. I’m not holding my breath. She told me she’d get me Mr Beauty Pageant, the kiwi’s phone number too. She lied.
She also made me run around in circles for ages the other day, after I might possibly have got a little over excited when asked to do a transition from trot to canter. In my book, bucking with all four feet off the floor is a perfectly acceptable transionary move between paces, particularly when accompanied by a manly “hiiiiiiyyyyaaaaa” (and not a girlie squeal as reported by mother).
I love seeing mum’s look of excitement, as my sudden shift up the paces makes her nearly fall over with glee. Admittedly, I’m not quite so fond of the lunging whip becoming closely acquainted with my bottom, but in mum’s own little way I’m sure it’s a sign of affection. The fact that she had to wait an hour for me to cool off (this was pre-haircut) just added to the bonding experience. I stood there glowing whilst mum taught me a lot of new and exciting words — fab it was…
Mum also went up to Bransby Horses Rescue and Welfare the other day, to sign a load of books for people for Christmas presents. This I don’t get. It’s my book. I wrote it so why do you all not want me to sign them? And why have I been described as an ideal stocking filler? Have you seen the size of me? Have you all been sniffing the hoof oil again? Weirdoes.
Apparently some people from Canada asked the nice Editor lady at Horse & Hound, how to buy my books the other day. Mum said I am hardly an international best seller. She sniggered. I wiped snot down her back. Billy said with my new haircut and close acquaintance with whips, I could release an equine Fifty Shades of Grey. He laughed so much, he snorted chaff up his nose. I bit him. Both have learnt an important lesson…
Anyway I am off to try and work a new angle with Foxy, fantasise about being a racehorse and start working on growing another coat.
Laters
Hovis
