Hovis’ Friday diary: I’m a social outcast with holey feathers
(Image credit: Unknown)
Dear diary,
So I might just be in mum’s bad books — again. It started last Friday when Herman the German Needle Man arrived to commence my IRaP treatment. For those of you not fully versed with what this entails, well basically they’ve taken my blood, mutated it into super horse powers and this appointment was for Herman to re-inject it into my joint to start my transition to Hoverine (think Wolverine but minus the steel claws and the questionable sideburns).
Herman arrived, threatened mother with his rapping — which I can assure you isn’t nice nice baby — and then set about scrubbing me within an inch of my ancestors lives, let alone my own. I seriously think the man thinks I am a germ laden mongrel with personal hygiene issues. A quick wipe over with antiseptic is one thing but seriously he scrubs like TLC.
Anyway halfway through scrubbing, he and mother decided that he was allowed near my feather with a pair of clippers (if you ever needed proof mother is nuts this was it — last time I ended up with a haircut that looked like a pair of curtains) and without so much as a by your leave I had yet another hole in my feather. Mother seemed grateful that it was such focussed damage but to my eyes this was far worse. At least when he takes the lot off I can tell war stories about my bravery and suffering — when he only shaves off a small patch I quite frankly look like I’ve got mange. Combine this look with the strong whiff of antiseptic and I suddenly become the yard equivalent to the kid at school with perpetual nits. The one your mum told you not to sit too close to. Once again I’m a social outcast with holely feathers; and not the religious type either…
Anyway, next thing the needle wielding ninja had shoved another needle in my neck which was clearly full of la-la juice from how swiftly tweetie pie started doing a fly by around my ears. I do have to say at this point also, I really wish mum and Herman would stop circulating rumours about me being a light weight. OK I may weigh 750kg and yet take the dope amount of a 400kg pony but that’s not a sign of anything other than how athletic I am. You hear of these rugby players that fall over after a sniff of a bar maid’s apron? That’s because they’re elite athletes: just like me.
Anyway while I was out cold, Herman re-injected me with my super horse blood, bandaged me up and topped it off with manly green vet wrap. I even pleased mum and left it on this time — last time she received a slightly worried phone call from the boss lady at 9pm saying I’d got it off and I won’t repeat the language mother used when she got back to me.
I had to stay in for a day or so before mum came and took the bandage off and said I could go out to play. Those were her exact words your honour and so therefore I view what happened next as no more than me following orders. The fact mother doesn’t agree is merely due to artistic differences…
She may have released me into the field with some dinner and a sternly worded warning to behave, but “behave” is such a loose term — I thought it meant be polite to your fellow equines, so when the ginger high maintenance one came flying down the field with an eye to playing tag over the fence I merely thought joining in was the thing to do. To be fair we’d only done two lengths of the field when the very colourful language emanating from a frankly apoplectic looking mother made it clear she didn’t share my view. Ginger wuss boy slithered to halt and looked all contrite (creep), whereas I may have decided I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb and went for another lap. I never knew a human was capable of turning that shade of puce without needing medical intervention but clearly I was wrong…
Continued below…
Hovis’ Friday Diary: it’s time for my Hoverine mutation… part two
