It’s day 245,976,999 of the human strangles epidemic. The level of suffering being felt by all is immense and while our valiant NHS battles hard and we rightly clap every Thursday night to salute their bravery and efforts, I also want to reflect on the equine suffering. More specifically MY equine suffering.
They gave me a man bun the other day. A MAN BUN. And THEN posted pictures of it online like some sort of click-baiting tabloid pepperoni. I mean, I get I am, to many, the equine David Beckham (athletic, muscled, fast and the object of desire), but peoples, I’m also not freeze marked all over, don’t squeak like a mouse on helium and DON’T wear man buns. Or sarongs for that matter…
When for the love of god will the humans be back working away from home all week? This “quality time” is getting thinner than a vegan self-isolating at McDonalds. I don’t want to be groomed for hours a day — I’m getting PTSD if someone steps within 4 feet of a brush, and let’s not even talk about scissors.
I spend every day in fear for my facial hair as Aunty Em and mini-mother ponder what “enrichment activities” they can do next. Between that and them joining “pole club” it’s a wonder I’m not permanently in therapy. I don’t want to “improve my self-carriage”, nor my bond with my humans — I want them to bugger off so I can perv at, sorry admire my harem. I don’t want to emerge from lockdown with a new skill and no facial hair — I want to be left in peace to eat grass, poo in my water trough and rub my mane into patches. THAT’S fun.
Weaving in and out of coloured cones like some sort of equine cross stitch is not fun. Walking around the school long-reining with mother is like asking Halley’s comet to circulate Clapham Junction, dragging an asthmatic alien in its wake. Lungeing over trotting poles that the devious wenches have raised slightly thus causing me misjudge the situation, step on one and then flail about like a fat lumberjack at a log rolling competition is not a jolly way to spend an afternoon — it’s a one way ticket to a pulled groin muscle. And don’t even get me started on clicker training — at first I thought the lockdown had caused a shortage of adhesive and the noise was mum’s false teeth rattling, either that or she’d developed tourettes. But no, this was another great “teach an old dog (I assume she meant herself) new tricks” idea. To be fair, it lasted as long as it took me to perfect “selective deafness” to compliment my one-eyedness and she deflated faster than a Virgin round the world balloon attempt.
I am a force of nature — allow me to express this my way; do not restrain me, confine me, nor put my mane in a man-bun…
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Talking, however, for a moment more seriously about equine suffering, then we do all acknowledge that for a lot of charities times are really tough. With that in mind I have launched a fundraising initiative to raise funds for two deserving charities: Bransby Horses in Lincolnshire, who suffered from horrendous flooding last year and now have lost all their visitor income. They are currently looking after over 400 equines and do a brilliant job both in welfare and education.
…The RDA Appeal to help support struggling branches across the UK. The RDA do incredible work bringing both mental and physical rehabilitation to thousands of disabled people and while their centres are closed, their incredible equine heroes still need taking care of — and as my mother bank manager will tell you, we horses aren’t cheap!
If you can help in any way, please, please click on the link below and donate what you can. More details can be found on my facebook pages.
In the meantime, stay safe, stay sane and stay away from scissors.
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