Hovis’ Friday diary: Frankenstein has nothing on me

  • Dear diary,

    So I haz news! After a rather more prolonged stay than we (and by “we” I mean she-who-must-be-obeyed) had anticipated or indeed budgeted for at the lovely hospital in Yorkshire, I am now back home. Still wearing my Batman mask and with tubes sticking out of very orifice known to man and taking more drugs than a banned American sprinter but at least home.

    It was all very last-minute it appears as I knew nothing of any of it until mother and mini-mother rocked up on Saturday morning with mother carrying headcollars and lunge whips and mini-mother brandishing a bag of carrots. I knew I loved one of them more than the other for good reason…

    A lovely young female vet proceeded to show mum how to do all my drugs which I bore with fortitude because I am after all a MAN. And because mini-mother’s carrots were being used as bribery of the highest order and I am a sucker for food — especially as they’d been trying to sneak drugs into my breakfast all week which tasted vile and proved they clearly think I have the brains of a thoroughbred and thus wouldn’t notice…

    So after much drug administration practise and a brief melt down as she saw beneath my super-hero mask, mum tootled off to sign lots of paperwork and get the final settlement fees while I sent a brief prayer that the vets were as good at human resuscitation as they were at animal medicine because I had the distinct impression mother was going to need it. She reappeared some time later looking sheet white and clutching her purse as though her life depended on it while mini-mother cheerfully informed me that the toilets had pink stuff in them. A child with her priorities so right I tell you.

    A very short time later, the lovely Frances from Equi-move arrived with my boots etc. and I was allowed out for the first time in weeks. Now bear in mind people, that despite a hoofting great ulcer across my eye, I can now (in theory!!) see for the first time in some time. I did briefly consider violently spooking on mother as we navigated the steep ramp down to the car park but figured that she looked shell shocked enough without me doing a Scooby-doo impression into her arms. But it would have been funny…

    So I loaded onto the lorry and Frances and I set off for home while mum and mini-mother drove on ahead. I arrived home and for once mum and I were clearly on the same wave length as she chucked my lovely new rug on and let me have grass for the first time in more than a week. It was heaven! The boss lady was heard to comment that even with my mask and all my tubes, if ever a horse could look like he was smiling it was me. And trust me, I was smiling!

    So since then I’ve been behaving, tolerating the vast amount of drugs I have to take both into my eye and down the throat administered at first by mum and then in the last few day while mum has been back at work, by the lovely boss lady, who I much prefer doing it because she gives me treats, lots of treats.

    Herman the German’s glamorous and less needle-ier assistant has been to see me twice and despite sending me into la-la land on Monday to stain and dye my eye (always such a treat) has felt that my eye is slowly improving. The vision wizard himself, Chris from Veterinary Vision, has phoned mum lots (he doesn’t ring me I note with some disgust) and all seem to think I am making slow but steady improvement. Which is more than can be said for mum’s nerves.

    Continued below…

    So we continue as we are for now, although I do long for the day this tube comes out of my eye I’ve got to be honest — it’s not the most fun I’ve ever had and certainly no mare is going to want to kiss me with it on. Mind you, going on mother’s reaction they’re not going to want to kiss me with it off at the moment either — apparently Frankenstein has nothing on me.

    So life is slowly looking up — I might still look like I’m wearing Madonna bra on my head but I’m home and I have grass which is all a boy can wish for.

    So see you – literally – laters,

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