So, the campaign to deep fry all equine kind in this country in strange batter consisting of a mixture of fly spray, sun cream and a liberal coating of sweat is clearly continuing. If it gets any hotter I will be wearing my eyelashes as a moustache as they slide slowly down my face in an avalanche of facial sweat. What’s worse is I may actually be mistaken for a dark bay instead of my usual stunning not-ginger-it’s-just-the-light colouring as I darken with sweat that no deodorant on earth could hold back. I permanently look like I’ve fallen in a river. It’s not attractive. Even my lady love is looking more like a wilted lettuce leaf than her usual jaunty thistle (pretty to look at but don’t touch unless you want to get hurt). It’s HOT.
To combat the heat, I’ve been dragged unceremoniously out of my field at an ungodly hour of the morning — one morning I was so early even the cockerel admitted defeat — worked by Aunty Em, then put into the American barn for the day to hide my delicate nostrils and other burnable body parts from the evil sun. This hasn’t been too bad because I’ve got to listen to the radio, hang out in the relative cool, not wear my holey bed sheet outfit and eat hay. The work bit I could do without if I’m honest, but I accept that she-who-must-be-obeyed dictates this and Aunty Em is far too polite (and possibly scared) to do anything but solider on.
At least she doesn’t subject my ears to a constant barrage of abuse about my failings — well apart from this morning when she suddenly turned into something from the exorcist after repeatedly asking me to lift my head a little higher than the ground grazing level I’d set it at. Apparently, my sudden selective deafness was enough to turn the usually mild mannered and very lovely lady into a raving psychopath who has a career in voicing horror films. I refute suggestion that I pooped myself and merely suggest I hurriedly looked to paper the cracks in our relationship by obeying at haste. That’s not cowardly — that’s sensible; peeing off every female in my life is not a great idea and I’m man enough to admit that I realise this…
I do wish it might rain soon — I’m only now being worked in the school because the ground is far too hard to do anything even resembling fun, and apparently mum will currently still be paying off my vet’s bills when she’s 90-years-old and has no desire to incur any more.
Mother is a woman lacking in any ability to see the upside in my self-harming nature — here’s me inspiring a new generation to become vets in the hope that one day they too could look after an equine as incredible as me. Not to mention the charitable work I’m doing for children’s education: Herman the German’s kids could sail through their academic life, all the way through seven-year degrees — all paid for by the Elite Equine Education fund — of which I am both patron and probably sole contributor. Mother should see this for its philanthropic nature and stop moaning about selling her body parts.
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So, she-who-is-a-whinging-moo is off on holiday at the moment, as is the boss lady, so Aunty Em and Aunty H are in charge which should be fun. I’m off to work on rubbing sandy soil into my sweat patches and violently rubbing my tail against my stable wall such that my bum looks like an electrocuted racoon.
As I’m dictating this to mother two days early, I did understand that the other night there was some football match on. I do hope it’s coming home but if it could do so with minimal damage to public property I think that would be much better. To all my equine police chums who may have been on duty that night – I hope you stayed safe.
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