Dear diary,
Last week I tried to help you two-legged creatures by sharing wisdom, and an inside secret or two, in a vain attempt to make you understand the colossal blunder you are all making when you “hilariously” dress up your horse as a festive buffoon. Sadly, it appears from the number of pictures shared on my Facebook pages that once again my words have fallen on deaf ears, so I will just say one thing to you all: spring. Mark my words. Spring. On that seemingly unassuming day when your previously dead-to-the-leg dobbin transforms into Frankel, with the brakes of a runaway express train, a mouth harder than Chuck Norris and the hearing of teenager (i.e. selective) then don’t blame me. I forewarned you…
Anyway, enough of your future woes (and trust me, they WILL come) and more of my current ones. As you all will know, I underwent yet another major operation to have a second go at the eviction of Kevin the Keratoma; not to be confused with Kevin the Carrot — one is large, costs a fortune for what it is and has caused much hysteria, and the other is a popular soft toy…
This operation has resulted in a hole in my foot so large, I’ve recently featured on a holiday rental site for people in search of a mini break. Now luckily this time, the team at Bungle’s House only went in through the front of my foot, so I haven’t had to wear a hospital plate; thus avoiding sounding like Big Ben going off every time I move. Still, mum and the boss lady have had to change my bandages every two days, and packing the aforementioned hole of Hovis with antibiotics and other gunk.
Now, those of you who frequent my Facebook pages will also know that my mother is a bit broken (she likes to mention it on there for sympathy), to the extent if she was a horse then she would have been sent to the large field in the sky; because let’s face it, who wants a old, grumpy, lame mare with very limited breeding potential, obvious signs of Cushing’s (overweight with very curly coat), who is very food orientated and known to kick and bite? Anyway, because she is both old and broken, she can’t bend, so her changing my bandages results in scenes that would have a BHS safety inspector crying hysterically in the corner, while mother balances my foot on her knee while knelt on the floor before me (about the only thing she actually gets right in life), like a nun at an altar. Time and time again I prove what an equine superstar I am, and have not at any stage booted her in the face nor stood on any appendage.
And how am I thanked for this?
By her allowing Herman the German Needle Man to come, do his nefarious needle trick and send me into the land of Tweetie Pie before donning a leather apron that made him look like the love child of a Bavarian folk dancer and the main character from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Mind you he might actually BE a direct descendant of the latter as the next thing I know he’s got an array of scalpels and knives out and is carving bits out of my foot like I’m a living Sunday roast. Chianti and Fava beans anyone? Sod The Silence of the Lambs, this was the Hollering of the Hovis. Seriously, he sliced the growth in my foot (apparently proud flesh, but trust me, it looked less gratified and more grated from where I was standing…) in a way that wouldn’t have been remiss in a Toby Carvery. It’s also fair to say it’s a good job I’m not squeamish as my blood was spraying out like a leaking brake fluid pipe; the floors, the stable walls, mother and Herman were all covered in it; honestly Carrie had nothing on this.
For once, mother kept her mouth shut — whether this was out of fear of puking or respect for the fact Herman had a scalpel in his hand and a faintly sadistic look in his eye, I know not but I’ve not seen her that quiet since she opened my last vet’s bill…
Needless to say, I have survived and didn’t bleed to death, but frankly I think this is only due to my incredible constitution than any form of skill from the Butcher of Berlin. I did however have to have a significant pressure bandage on my foot to try and keep the pitiful pintage of blood I had left where it belongs, which did involve much comedy capers and mother and Herman tried to coordinate sufficiently to bandage me without taking pressure off my wound. Now, I’m sure Herman has done this before, so why he felt the need to keep all the bandages in inside pockets so mother had to fondle him to get them out, I know not. He seemed happy though. No doubt thinking of the bill he was going to be sending…?
By the time you read this I will have been joined by the delightful double act of Herman and Cool New Shoes Man, who are going to perform some sort of powerful podiatry prowess to allow my foot to be sealed in like Tutting Karmoomin (who I think was a cow god?) in her toom. Mother is thoroughly excited by the idea of being tag teamed by the two of them and appears to be turning to drink to celebrate. No doubt photos or such like will be forthcoming on my Facebook Pages.
Article continues below…
You might also be interested in:
Hovis’ Friday diary: I’m a badass, not bloody Bambi
‘Every time we are made to prance down the road like Rudolph’s rouge relative, a small part of our soul
Subscribe to Horse & Hound this spring for great savings
And finally before I sign off, I just wanted to provide yet another public service by helping all of you who haven’t quite got all your Christmas presents sorted yet; all my books and merchandise can be bought from www.bransbyhorses.co.uk, where every penny goes to helping this incredible charity. Looking after over 450 equines who have it even worse than me (which must be seriously bad — I have to put up with mother) is hard enough as it is, but having been hit by the floods and losing over 40% of their grazing land, they really, really need our help. So, get some great gifts for horsey (and non-horsey but still discerning) friends and loved ones and do something amazing at the same time. I promise on my mother’s life we get paid nothing, nada, zero, zilch, and EVERY penny goes to charity; I don’t even get a carrot.
Thank you from all the equines who can’t say it (being nowhere near as talented as me, clearly).
Laters,
Hovis
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