Dear diary,
I write this from within the casa del pero, where I am likely to be residing for a while, so if anyone can send food parcels or loose moralled mares who are up for conjugal visits they would be most welcome.
I started the slow slide down into the later chapters of mother’s bad books on Sunday, when I was unceremoniously dragged in from the field at a time so unholy, there’s no doubt in my mind it was called Damien, and tacked up for another “gentle pootle” around the still present and wonderful soft-grounded stubble field. The main issue being that it became clear rather quickly that mother and I have a very different views on the dictionary definition of “gentle pootle”. Mother had barely got her leg over in the school, when I set off out of the gate with the type of single-minded power march usually only seen at the fat fighters’ annual trip to Cadbury World. The fact that mother had neither both feet in the stirrups nor any semblance of rein contact was frankly immaterial in my eyes, but as usual she didn’t see it that way. It’s fair to say that as a rider, mother is about as useful as a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest…
By the time she’d reeled in her reins, fired a suitable response down her synapses to her fat little feet and generally sorted her life out, Bob and I were already in the field and settling into our racing lines (aka the tramlines, which are just starting to green over) with the over-exuberant enthusiasm of the TOWIE cast hearing tanning salons were reopening. Mother’s cool was disappearing more rapidly than facts in a Trump speech as she and I proceeded to engage in a wrestling match of the magnitude not seen since The Rock was still cookin’. It’s fair to say, that by the time we’d leg-yielded the length of the first side of the field in a parody of a Tolt (and trust me Peter, you had it very wrong — mums do not love Iceland — well, mine doesn’t…) mother’s patience had worn thinner than her thighs can ever dream of being.
To be fair to her, she did actually manage to control my two attempts to break into gallop from walk as I executed an upward transition with the thrust of a Eurofighter pilot after chilli night at the mess, and sadly thwarted my attempts to push Bob in the dyke as we rounded the corner at the top end of the field. By the time we came round down the other long side, she’d wedged me in so tightly to Bob’s rear end I could have done an internal examination without moving an inch, as between gritted teeth she pointed out to a perplexed Aunty C that the only thing between me and a full out cowabunga yeehaa! was her and Bob’s butt. It was fair to say that mother viewed me as “full of it”, although what the “it” was could have been debatable…
Mother therefore was cautiously optimistic that whatever had ailed me two weeks before was now healing, and thus despite having arms two feet longer than they had been previously and a requirement for enough Tramadol to knock out an elephant, she left me on Sunday night smiling. Well either that or she had wind — sometimes it is hard to tell.
I do however take my role as one of life’s great levellers very seriously: grass need taking to bowling green heights? I can level that. You want a reminder that I am the greatest philanthropist to the oppressed vets of the world? Yep, I can do that too.
Apparently there are three phone numbers that strike fear into mother’s heart when they ring — mini-mother’s school, the boss lady and Aunty Em — particularly when the opening line is “don’t panic, but”, and Wednesday saw Aunty Em have to make that call as she’d come to fetch me in and I wouldn’t move. Literally.
Mum was away but swiftly got on the bat phone to Herman the German, who dispatched one of his lovely sidekicks to my rescue, while in the meantime, Aunty Em and the Boss Lady had managed to push and pull me into the stables using bribery and a lot of muscle.
Forty five minutes later and the vet had arrived while mother had achieved a runner’s high by pacing the hallways of her client’s office. The net result was I have another abscess in my bad foot which blew like Moby Dick with a cold, showering the surrounding area with so much snot it looked like a stage set for Ghostbusters. Most people would be pleased that it is only an abscess, but mother is panicking like Wesley Snipes at a tax audit that Kevin the Keratoma has pulled an Arnie and is back. The vet doesn’t think so and neither does Cool New Shoes Man, who is coming to see me today, but that’s not stopped mother stressing so hard you can see individual air molecules vibrating around her. Most people would listen the professionals to whom she pays an annual bill that rivals most third world countries’ national debt, but there are times when my mother is so dumb, she couldn’t tell which way a lift was going if she had two guesses…
Continued below…
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So, I’m confined to barracks for a few days wearing enough vet wrap for the shareholders of NAF to build me my own statue outside head office, and being hot tubbed once a day — which sadly seems to involve my foot in a bucket rather than hanging out in a Jacuzzi with hot mares; sometimes I get my hopes up higher than mother’s blood pressure only for them to be cruelly dashed…
Send carrots, cuddles and ketamine ASAP; which I use who on remains undecided…
Laters,
Hoppy Hovis
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