Dear Diary
Well it’s fair to say it’s not been the best of weeks — well not from mother’s perspective. I’ve actually had quite a nice little jolly — a bit of a road trip, a perv appreciation of some pretty fit, posh mares and lots of treats, so all-in-all it was fine.
So as I last reported, this week I was Newmarket bound which did result in mother spending Sunday scrubbing me within an inch of my life. So that “while she would be the owner of the only hairy, bog-trotting beast of indiscriminate parentage present at the vets, at least I wouldn’t be a dirty hairy, bog-trotting beast of indiscriminate parentage”. These finer details are always important to mother so I have learnt to just nod sagely — particularly when she is washing my mane, as she then gets completely drenched…
So Monday morning rolled around. I was hauled out of my bed at an ungodly hour and made to eat my breakfast, while being stared at by the mini-mother (who had been given the “job” of overseeing me eating) and then being clad in my robo-cop leg outfit by big mother. I was brushed, sponged and a general attempt made to at least disguise the vast array of stains, I had diligently applied to my person all night before a large lorry appeared at the barn doors.
A very nice man appeared and then he blew that first impression by looking at me critically and saying, “is this him? Big isn’t he?” HIM? I am not a HIM! I am a Hovis, thank you very much. And for the record I am not “big” — I am a heavily-muscled specimen of equine perfection. Honest.
So the man loaded me aboard the lorry, mum gave me hugs goodbye and mini-mother gave the man my passport with instructions “to take Hovis on holiday”. When both the man and I looked confused mother muttered something about mini-mother only being two and just to bear with it. I was somewhat alarmed as I didn’t really want to “bare” anything with this man and Old Tom once warned me about those kinds of holiday places…
Anyway we set off and before too long (remember I don’t have a watch) we pulled up to this big, posh place where it’s fair to say I stuck out like boobie implants on a yard brush. Several of the very fine-looking fillies parading about did give me some very hot and heavy glances, so at least a few appreciated my manly physique. It’s fair to say, an hour later as the vets stood regarding my foot and the coil of the MRI scanner that wouldn’t go over my foot, they were not one of this small group of admirers.
I’m not sure the exact point they rang my mother to tell her that this little sojourn had been a complete waste of time, but it’s fair to say the man who had delivered the news did look very pale for sometime afterwards. Knowing mother she had probably threatened to use his manly parts as Christmas tree baubles, while icily questioning his professionalism, his parentage and possibly inside leg measurement.
My mother on a rant is like a tidal wave — an unstoppable force of nature that you just have to let expand its energy all over you, before it retreats and you get a chance to inhale. When it’s not aimed at you it’s actually great fun to watch — as I’m sure the fellow owners who were in the waiting room the following day can probably attest to…
So other than another nerve block which resulted in yet another shaved patch in my feathers,(seriously any knitters out there? I need some form of leg warmer before Your Horse Live — it’s so embarrassing) the little trip resulted in very little other than a large bill, a nice change of scenery for me, a very, very irate mother (even more irate after a six-hour round trip to come and fetch me the following day), and a group of verbally-battered vets. If I was a betting horse, I would say it’s a stone cold certainty that coronet band measurements prior to travelling to said posh vets might now become a standard procedure…
So I’m back home now with the plan being to inject my joints on Friday (so as you’re reading this I am bravely facing Herman, a big needle and a very stressed mother) and see how I go. The next option will be to go with IRAP which worries me on two levels — I’m a heavy horse not an M&M so how do I rap (think about it!)? And if I rap does that mean the vet has to rap too? German vet rap is a terrifying thought so I’m praying for the steroids to work…
Yours
Hovis
Big foot of Lincolnshire
