This week I write to you smug because I finally feel people are getting the message about what a unique equine I am. Well everyone apart from my mother, but I’ll come on to “she-who-must-be-obeyed” in a minute…
Last week, a very nice company who make things that go around your legs to make you more healthy and bouncy, sent me some “products” to try. Apparently, they’re being launched at that Hickstead party (I hope they’re not throwing them at people — that would be rude) and have been trialled on lots of high-class showjumpers and eventer types.
Naturally then, to anyone with a brain, it’s easy to see why they have sent some to me. Mother takes a different view (when does she not take a different view) and suggests they were short of larger than average test subjects with mixed and rather suspect parentage. I am ignoring her.
THEN another company sent me some blingy things that go on your bridle and saddle, to help people find your parents when you’ve accidentally dislodged your mother out hacking. I did wish to enquire if they also make ones for mothers that read “if found please do not return to sender” but thought that might seem ungrateful.
So since I am clearly being viewed by some as a serious athlete who must be protected and so forth, surely this can only mean that Yogi Bear will be on the phone imminently with an offer? I must keep my mobile topped up. In the highly likely event that the British showjumping and eventing teams get into a bidding war over me, I must point out kudos will be given to the team with the most mares. It may seem shallow but hey “paddling pool” is my middle name.
The only person who does not seem to share the view that my world domination is growing ever closer is mother. Quelle surprise (Did you like that? I’ve been practising my foreign lingo for when I’m abroad with the team). We went out hacking with Billy last week and she made me trot most of the way because apparently I am looking (and here I quote) “a little less Destroyer and rather more Zeppelin”. I am assumed she meant my mane style was reminiscent of a rock god, Billy said it was more likely that I resembled a large airship full of gas. He looks like a cow, what does he know?
Anyway, it became clear mother was in a “I prefer thoroughbred” mode, when I then spent the rest of the weekend being worked within an inch of my life. I ran in that many circles the other night that I swear I went back in time. I was so drenched in sweat that the local council nearly applied for planning permission for a desalination plant on my feathers. Why is it my fault that Aunty Becky hasn’t been able to ride for the last week or so? I am enjoying chilling in my field (dressed like a teabag admittedly), eating grass and hanging with my hare hommies.
Mother has also taken to leaving me out with no rug on even when it’s cold and the rest of the yard is wearing their kagools because I’m “carrying enough insulation of my own”. I could point out “pot kettle black” but mum has a schooling whip and I don’t…
The only good news is I swear I heard her mention the “J” word the other day and how she hadn’t done any for ages. Now admittedly mother’s idea of “jumping” is more akin to hopscotch over a couple of poles but heh, I’ll take anything over stressage and running round in circles.
I’m off to await the postman to see what other goodies this week brings while waiting with anticipation for my mobile to ring. I love cross-country but for queen and country, I’m prepared to wear a tea cosy on my head and show what feather power over coloured poles really looks like. Selfless that’s me.