I need a home. I have decided that it’s high time I moved out and away to pastures new; preferably pastures that I don’t have to share with a cocky cow coloured coblet. I’m serious. I’m done. They have gone too far this time, way too far.
It was bad enough that the miniature mullet-maned menace was put into a sectioned off portion of MY field, eating MY grass and pooing on MY hallowed land. THEN he starts making eyes at all MY ladies — doing the whole “look at my blue eyes and long girlie eyelashes” and whinnying at them like Barry White on helium. Walrus of love? More like the penguin of pathetic-ness.
How can it get worse then this abomination our dearest Hovis, I hear you all sympathetically cry. Well it can readers, it can. Because last Sunday the scruffy short stuff was taken down to the yard, bathed to within an inch of his life using MY special “make your feathers glow so white they can be seen from space” shampoo, scrubbed using MY brushes and chalked up using (you’ve guessed it) MY chalk. Then to add insult to, quite frankly, life-threatening injury, he was loaded onto MY executive transport and taken to a party. And, where was I? In the field. Alone. Looking at piles of his poo.
Before whinny-by-gaslight turned up I was the centre of the equine universe in our household, it was I who was scrubbed within an inch of my life, it was I who was so chalked up it was like the final of Stars In Their Eyes every time I moved and it was I who went to all the parties. Now I am told, we are to share, and I have to play nicely with pocket-sized pain in the posterior. Just so we’re clear, that’s so not going to happen — the first opportunity I get, I’m flicking the furball four counties over. I wouldn’t mind, but the little smug specimen came back with three rosettes and an ego the size of a planet. All he’d had to do for one of them was stand there while mini-mother looked cute; I’d place money the judge was too scared to look under all that hair to actually check whether he was correctly turned out for fear of discovering some long-lost tribe of the Amazon. The only thing thicker than his mane is him. Three rosettes and you’d think he’d solved world hunger; I have been ridden by Geoff Billington and Mary King (SIX times, I hasten to add) and do you catch me going on about it? Nnnoooo.
Mother did try to come and explain herself to me when they got back, but to be honest, I turned my back on her in disgust. Twelve years together and this is the level of traitorous behaviour that I am subjected to. The only thing lower than my opinion of the lot of them, is a snake’s man parts.
Talking of man parts, I saw Cool New Shoes Man on Friday back when the world was still good and I hadn’t been relegated to the B team. I can now report that the hole of Hovis is no more and that my foot is now totally healed up. Back in January I had half my hoof cut off and now you’d never know — and that people, is why I am the Hoverine. CNSM praised my healing powers, my slimline physique, and for his kind words I granted him a lengthy Hovis hug which, bless him, made him turn all red. There was no need to be embarrassed, I tried to assure him, hugging him for longer, but the poor man seemed lost for words.
Mother’s version of events differs, quelle surprise, and seems to revolve around me being a lazy leaning lump who nearly caused her to have to give CNSM mouth to mouth in an attempt to revive him. To be honest, I’m not sure who would be more scarred from that — mother for having to do it, CNSM for having to be on the receiving end or me for having to witness it. Luckily for all of us he is a tad tougher than he looks, so did in fact survive, even if he was breathing heavier than an asthmatic on a fun run. I don’t see the problem personally — I am a mere ¾ tonne of equine muscled magnificence finished off with feathers; if Carlsberg made horses, that’s all I’m saying…
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Anyway, mother tells me that if I continue with my back to work plan and Aunty Em ever figures out how to ride a circle that doesn’t look like an egg, then maybe we could go out to parties all together. Stressage parties. I’m looking forward to that like a horse fly on the hooter…
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