My name is Hovis and right now I resemble a seal pup in leg warmers (if seal pups were 16.2hh tall that is), my eyes look very big and brown and I have beautiful cheekbones. None of this is my fault and if one more person goes “aaawwwwwww” when they see me, I’m going to bite someone.
That’s right people — the annual haircutting has commenced. I wish I went all dark and manly when clipped like my older brothers used to, but alas I don’t — I look like a poster boy for Greenpeace. As if this wasn’t bad enough my mother and otherwise lovely sharer have to go and post pictures of me all over my Facebook pages thus pretty much ensuring a tidal wave of “awwwwws” from all my usually lovely fans. I do not want to be “awwwww” worthy, I want to be “phoar” worthy. Life sucks…
Admittedly, the clip came after mother worked me so hard at the weekend it took about 2 hours for the sweat to dry off. “Why did she not use a cooler on your manly frame?” I hear you all ask. Well, there’s a story too. A rather short story. Like once upon a time I had a cooler and last week it died. The end. The fact Aunt Sarah had to text mum to say she’d found me in the field with the remains of said cooler and a rather sheepish expression on my face was unfortunate — even she was amazed how I’d got my outer rug off without undoing the straps. I’m thinking of changing my name to Houdini, what do you think?
So sans cooler and with a mother and Aunty B who like to try to work me to death, the clip was almost inevitable. The only good news is that it might mean the new mare sees more of my manly frame and chiselled cheekbones and decides I might be worthy of more attention. I shared the arena with her on Saturday and she didn’t look too keen. Admittedly, having mother bouncing about like a drunken Mexican jumping bean, once more without stirrups, was hardly going to make me look all aloof and mysterious.
The fact that I also nearly fell over my own feet and mum calling me “angel” in front of her, has pretty much guaranteed the closest thing I’m going to get to pulling her, is if I’m in the barn when Aunty Sarah is doing her mane. My one redeeming hope is that she needs me to bodyguard her out hacking soon, which will be the perfect opportunity to show her what a man I am. Unless we see a convoy of tractors of terror and then her perfectly formed bum is on her own — I’ll be out of there…
I’m sort of hoping she might be coming back in at night soon, so I might be able to launch a full charm offensive. I’m now back in due to the haircut and old Tom is in because he’s a thoroughbred — need I say more?
On one final note before I sign off for the week, I think I need to fire my agent — i.e. mother. Not only has she agreed for Aunty B to take me to some stressage competition at the end of the month, allowed pictures of my baby seal look to be posted all over Facebook and generally failed in her duty to provide me with enough carrots but she’s also not got me a film deal. Which is seriously not fair considering some cat dude who has written just one book (and people I have written TWO) has got one.
I think I’d be amazing on the big screen — Billy did say it would have to be a VERY big screen to fit my backside on but since he looks like a cow, I don’t thing he’s in a position to comment personally. So who do I need to speak to about this film thing? The Destroyer, the feature film, has a certain ring I think, don’t you?