Dear diary,
So, after the fun and games of the previous weekend, I was most heartened by a quieter one this weekend after mother’s back seized up like an aged tap and she spent the weekend limping about pathetically. I almost wished to see Herman as, to be honest, he would have been forced to shoot her on the grounds of welfare — my lord that doctor’s hypocritical oath thingies could have been my saviour here!
On Saturday she was bent over like a pretzel and moving with the speed of a sloth on marijuana, only slightly less chilled out, trailing Dad and mini-mother behind her like servants from ancient times as they carried my food and pushed the wheelbarrow. To be fair, it is on occasions such as these that I have to pat myself on the withers and acknowledge what a simply awesome job I’ve done of training my dragon — these “owners” of mine do in fairness know their place in life! If anyone needs any assistance in training their supposed superior beings, then let me know — for a small fee (carrots, treats or a roll in the hay with moral-less mares) I can be your Jedi master: just call me Hovi One Carrotobi…
On Sunday I was forced to do a small amount of in-hand work which, quite frankly, was wrong on more levels than a lift in a brothel. I don’t do flatwork. I certainly don’t do flatwork when mother is also on the ground. I am NOT some sort of clydipoodle doing “walkies” through poles and around cones; leave that to the panting four-legged ones who have an overzealous desire to please, questionable oral hygiene and an enviable ability to lick certain parts of their own anatomy. I found the whole thing frankly embarrassing and that was before mother insisted on giving a running commentary regarding the lack of functioning synapses between my “pea-like brain” and my “plate-like feet”, which was undoubtedly entertaining the vast rabbit militia who were gathered in the field adjoining, rubber necking like tourists in the red-light district. How I am ever going to pull anything in life besides a muscle with my mother in tow is something which keeps me awake at night. She treats my street cred with the sort of lofty disdain usually reserved for thoroughbreds gazing at any of us with feathers.
My feelings are wantonly disregarded like speed limits and other social niceties such as not foaming at the mouth in public. How I am not a neurotic, gibbering wreck with more issues than an ex-reality show star, I know not — it’s clearly merely down to my all-round ability to cope with any of life’s little issues and treat them the way I treat cross-country jumps: full power, zero control, no finesse and eye closed.
Thankfully the high winds have put pay to Aunty Em stepping up to the plate and working me into the ground this week so long may they continue — even if they do make my mane look like a prop for a baby shark video and my tail whip around me with such vigour I now know what self-flagellation feels like…
Continued below…
Hovis’ Friday diary: mother implied I was an attention seeking, work avoiding, ginger hued, drain on her emotional and financial resources
Hovis is concerned he might be for sale
And on a final note, I would just like to congratulate Ros Canter on her brilliance at WEG (the World Equestrian Games) and my brilliance as a coach. Look at the evidence here people — 2016 I meet Nip and Tuck Shop and he spends a night in the stable next door being heavily coached by me — result? The transformation into a dressage superstar. 2016 and 2018 I meet Jonty Evans and have a little chat with him about his plan to get around Belton — the result? He wins. Same weekend I meet and am photographed with Ros and we again have a little pep talk about her approach to eventing — result? Poof! Superstar. The FEI really needs to take note — I am a trainer of clearly meteoric capability. You might overlook me as a ridden prospect (which is still featherist) but you can’t deny my coaching results. I shall await your call…
Laters,
Hovis
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