Dear Diary
So, operation fight back #553 is well underway. I have progressed out of my euphemistically titled “bijou outside space” (aka a patch of grass that wouldn’t support an outcast from the rabbit militia for more than half an hour, fenced by electric at a higher voltage than the chair) and back into a proper sized paddock. One which also has an interloper in it, but more on that in a minute…
I’ve progressed from walking about to trot work which I have found VERY exciting. Judging from the amount of “whoa’s” and other less polite adjectives that Aunty Em has been throwing out with more ferocity that a Serena Williams serve, I’m not entirely sure the feeling is mutual. I’m pretty sure a description of “a hormonal raging bull having been fed a diet of blue smarties and Capri Sun for a month” is not supposed to be flattering, but it’s better than pointing out the only thing moving slower than me is a gange smoking sloth. Seriously peoples, women are like so hard to please… I’m also sure Aunty Em never swore the way she can now until she met Mother – the woman is like a hobbling Collins dictionary of expletives.
Whilst we’re on the subject of mother and her less than stellar qualities, I do have to apologise to any of my adoring Hovite Army who may have been subjected to recent facebook pictures of mother’s arse. Admittedly a wide angled lens had to be used, but photographs of a bruised and blackened derriere were plastered across social media with scant regard to the trauma this would cause. I know how hard it will be to erase the image from where it is now burnt into your retinas, but please be brave and try. In the meantime, the helpline has been opened and will remain this way until facebook remove the images under the barrage of complaints…
The mothership remains out of action following her lobotomy or whatever she’s supposed to have had done, so Emily and the boss lady are in soul charge of my care. Mother does hobble down to stand and watch from a distance (apparently she’s contagious and has to stay away from us – either that or she has to be careful of us bumping into her, whichever version you believe). This went down really well tonight (we were coming in due to the storm) when I might have misjudged an open door, fell over my own feet and crashed into the wall. Oh, and rubbed my tail until it resembled an electrocuted afghan. Apparently ignoring mother angrily poking me through the bars like a Gorilla with a twitch and wafting my substantial rear end at the walls of my stable like a Nicki Minaj at a twerking competition causes mother to turn a funny colour and send in Aunty Em with the business end of a brush. Who knew?
Continued below…
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘she had little choice but to leg it alongside clinging on to both her underwear and her pride’
Subscribe to Horse & Hound this spring for great savings
Calls for change in law after dogs chase mare and foal
The black and white bane of my existence was in action tonight in the school having a lesson that seemed to involve him being allowed to leave the ground, which I can’t say I was happy about. The last time I was allowed to jump Donal Trump was just the annoying guy of the American Apprentice and Brexit was the trial name of a breakfast cereal…
The boy blunder did, however, blot his copy book by jettisoning mini-mother out of the front door the day after her seventh birthday. Alas mini-mother is now discovering that while Mother may claim that she and I are the leading lights of her life, she still makes Cruella DeVille look like a vegan animal rights protestor and thus the child was thrown back on the inch high incompetent imbecile without so much as being given time to snort the school sand from her sinuses.
What makes all this worse is that the newly slimmed down pint-sized piebald has been moved into MY field (fenced for his safety) such that we can “get to know each other”. Get to know him? I’m going to flick the furball into the fens. I was supposed to teach mini-mother to ride. It was ME supposed to get to go to pony club camp and do pony club games, not some waist high weirdo with a wild weave. Seriously he has so much mane he looks like Doogle from the magic roundabout after a blow-dry. Why anyone thinks that I’m going to befriend the black and white mini cow in leg warmers I have no idea.
Mother has been heard saying she thinks Stanley will bully me, but that’s probably just the morphine talking – like I’m going to get my ass handed to me by the chubby child. He’d have to stand on a box to even get close…
So, I’m going to plot how to get the hapless hairball out of my field, continue my trot work #fightback and get ready for cantering next week. Any ground tremors felt will not be fracking nor an earthquake but more the waves of excitement as the world watches the return of the Destroyer.
Laters,
Hovis
