Dear Diary
So, this has been a gloriously quiet week as she-who-must-be-obeyed has been in Mum-bye. Sadly, it’s not a permanent “bye” and by the time you read this she will be back in residence throwing insults and profanities like confetti and waving a lunge whip like a fat middle-aged magician with a twitch.
I had a visit from Herman at the weekend and he continues to be pleased with my incredible healing powers (why I have NO idea when it was him that mutated my blood and turned me into the Hoverine) and the boss ladies’ expert vet nurse care. He is much less complimentary about mother’s assistance, but only from a distance – he not half so brave when she’s on the same continent. Mind you neither am I…
Stanley the cow patterned cowardly coblet is alas still here; eating my grass, in my field and still hopelessly trying to chat up my lady love. I tell you when I get out of here and into a field even in the same postcode, me and him are going to have words. And when I say “words” I mean the type delivered on the end of some serious whoop ass. Admittedly I may have to wait until both mother and mini-mother are away or I shall be on the naughty step for the rest of my life if I’m caught; either that or bribe the rabbit militia with carrots to hide his body and then innocently suggest he may have been mistakenly taken to the local milking parlour. Moostaken identity. My god, I’m good.
So apparently once Herman the German is happy that I’m not growing any further mysterious masses in my foot and that I’m granulating more than a bag of demerara sugar in a jungle, then Cool New Shoes Man will come and seal my foot. I’m not sure how this will work and don’t know if it will make me fly like an eagle or not, but I’m sure it will be amazing. Then a change is going to come; a change of scenery that is – i.e. I get to see something more exciting than four walls and my prison bars. I’ve done so much box rest over the past few years I feel like a house arrested political protestor; my crime? Protesting for greater rights for feathered fellas in the eyes of the FEI.
Continued below…
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Anyway, like other great martyrs before me, I shall press on – in the meantime any religious offerings can be sent via my management (i.e. mother). I’m all for carrots and treats, but the biggest respect you could pay is to “sacrifice” a few mares at my altar. Hubba Hubba. It’s all in a good cause and I will certainly show them paradise… and the hole in my foot because frankly that deserves a shed load of sympathy and I get sweet naf all of that at home.
The lack of anyone taking note of my suffering is frankly shameful – the other day I had to listen to a whole day of local radio instead of my preferred down-with-the-kids listening. My ears were bleeding by the time I was rescued some six hours later – there were only so many times I could listen to Mavis from Mablethorpe give her opinion on Brexit before I wanted to throttle myself with my own surcingles. Forget all I have been through physically – that sort of torture should have been used by the CIA. Rendition flights? Forget it, six hours of local radio, Dave from Doncaster failing to answer difficult questions like “how do you spell donkey?”, Mavis from Mablethorpe and some DJ getting over excited over Girls Aloud and honest to god I’d have confessed to anything.
I’m off to try and fashion ear plugs from left over hay, a hoof full of shavings and a mouth full of molasses.
Laters,
Hovis
