Hovis’ Friday Diary: ‘The abuse I endure at times is beyond belief’
(Image credit: Karen Thompson)
Dear Diary
Well, it appears my diary entry from last week has really hit home for many besieged equines, battling the holiday human horror of “festive fun” that seems to involve heavyweight horse humiliation and a LOT of tinsel…
Anyways, just a heads up (and if you don’t pay attention a bottoms up, legs up, rear up), that we are all now very much aligned on my view – which is if you decorate us in December, we will deck you in spring.
I’m afraid we are now at the stage of taking a real stand against this abject seasonal cruelty and if that stand happens to be on our back legs whilst you cling on for dear life like a fat fighter to the last After Eight, then don’t say you weren’t warned. Although to be fair having seen Barbie bedecked in gold tinsel and marched out for photos yesterday there are some possible exceptions to the rule – sort of like the ones in which you have to go to Barnard Castle for an eyesight test…
The one bit about Kissmuss I really do like is the advent calendar thing. I’m not sure I understand it if I’m really honest – mother doesn’t know what day of the week it is on a good day and good days occur about as frequently as the days her ass fits into skinny jeans without the liberal application of duck fat grease and a tug of war team on stand-by, so I don’t get what they’re for. That said anything that results in me getting a treat everyday is a good thing as the likelihood of me getting them for being a “good boy” in my mother’s eyes is slimmer than she can ever dream of being.
The down side is because the pint-sized pain in the posterior has PMT, or some other three letter whinge fest, he’s not allowed many treats. My mother’s northern, and thus tight-fisted answer to this, is for us both to share. How this is in anyway fair, I know not. I can have treats. I don’t get them, but I amallowed them. Why should I suffer because he’s more high maintenance than a Kardashian?
Honestly, the abuse I endure at times is beyond belief.
Anyways, I am off to dodge the tinsel – mother may have lost the bottle to bedeck the Hovis with boughs of holly, but I don’t trust mini-mother – and ponder what delights shall land in my stocking this Kissmuss. I cling on to hope of a moral-less mare, unlimited lickits and a change of passport ownership to someone who can actually ride, because let’s face it, if talent were diesel, mother’s mental moped wouldn’t make a circuit of a Malteser.
Laters,Hovis
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