Well, how a week changes things. Last week I was all happy and full of beans about my jumping exploits and the fun I was having. This week I am feeling unloved and cast aside like an unwanted Christmas present.
I don’t know why, but I have been dumped. My sharer no longer wants to share me and I don’t understand why. Mum has said it’s not my fault and I didn’t do anything wrong, but I feel rather unloved. A Hovis is for life, not just for the summer — perhaps someone can make me a bum (I’ve not got a bumper, so it’ll have to be for my bum) sticker saying that?
So I’m on the hunt again for someone to take me out and have some fun with. Since mum was in charge of finding the last person and we all see how that worked out, I’ve decided I shall write my own advert this time. Old Tom told me that humans look for other human sharers through classified adverts, but having looked at a few in a newspaper one of the builders at the yard left behind I’m not sure that this is right?
I was looking for how to write an advert, but having read some that were muckier than my nose after a bowl full of wet chaff, I am a little alarmed what I might get. I mean I think I have a GSOH, but what if it actually means Got Sausage of Hovis? Billy fell about laughing when I asked him and said people might think I’m a tent boy.
I mean if I put “large muscled male seeks male or female for hours of jumping and fun in the country” I could be asking for serious trouble. The mind boggles…
On a side note, are the ladies in these papers that have no clothes on advertising for a cardigan? I suppose wearing nothing shows how desperate they are and what size needs to be knitted, but it must be very embarrassing for the poor builder man to have to see that every day. I think I told you last time mum got her T-shirt all wet when showering me, the tractor driver in the next field was so blinded he ended up in a ditch. The poor man is probably still having counselling…
The other answer to my sharing issue is for Mr Knickerless (thank god he doesn’t advertise for new pants) or Mr Fox-in-a-hole to get their finger out and ask me to be their steed. I’ve shown my prowess at cross-country, I’m not bad at hopping over poles like a kangaroo with hiccups, and if they ask nicely I can briefly ponce about with my head “just so” channelling my inner dressage diva (Boglands Quaver). Surely one of you must know them? Mum says I’d be better off asking Mary Queen, but isn’t she that woman who goes about saving shops?
I just want to go and play, I’d forgotten how much I enjoy it and due to the small thing that pulls my whiskers, mum hasn’t got time to compete me anymore. Life sucks. Even Aunt Sam taking me out hacking the other night and commenting how fit and wonderful I look and how well behaved I was, has not mollified me.
So unless Dolly has a sudden change of heart and wants to do some of the things I read about in that newspaper, I am mainly depressed. Any offers of long weekends with mucky mares, flirty fillies and large quantities of grass would be gratefully appreciate to try to make me feel better. Failing that I’m going to sit in the corner of my field and cry.