Help! Can someone please give me a crash course in whale songs? I need it. Now. Here. Now! There is imminent danger. The whole world is just looking at Timmy and forgetting where the real problems are. Namely with us. With us horses.

Millions are being invested to get the pachyderm with the broken satnav and a love of the Baltic Sea beach (and beaching on the Baltic Sea) back on track. Campaigning was yesterday. Today, it’s the walking campaign that counts. Without the streetscape, inheritance tax and healthcare reform. Whaling as a fight for the whale that you want to get rid of – it’s all political somehow.

So first push it off the sandbank and then push it off. Somewhere in the Atlantic, in international waters. Where otherwise only spy submarines are on the lookout for undersea cables and pipelines suitable for sabotage. All under ministerial supervision and with private money. If public-private partnerships don’t work elsewhere, they work in the whale steam. According to reports, it is not entirely without friction, but that is not surprising. He who has the whale is spoiled for choice. We all know that.

Back to us. We have a problem. We the underprivileged. The eternally maltreated. Whose fur is torn from their bodies while they are still alive (or rubbed, groomed, sheared – whatever). The disenfranchised, who have worming treatments forced into their mouths. Who are given hay ad libitum and prepared for the grazing season with a diet plan. But nobody seems to care. It’s just whale day. Every day. Especially when Timmy goes on a cruise with two ships. That’s when we slip through the net. Bitter!

And we can hump even more than a humpback whale. Want to bet that …? And mooring? No problem, I can do that too. Even without a minister on the promenade. Presumably he wants to take a lesson in how it’s done with the commitment. Politicians aren’t always so good at that.

Hallelujah! I need rescue. I’ll go on a whale trip if I have to. Into the water. Where it’s knee-deep. So Timmy-like. Because the incarnate salvation of horse welfare, my last hope, can currently be found right there. Very close to Timmy. Instead of right next to the warm-up arena. To the riders. To bits. To what she identifies as evil. She, the vet, known from radio and television. The horse expert with a small animal practice now wants to land a really big fish. Oh no, into deep water. How? No fish? Never mind. Sea, water. The smell should be similar.

Your name always sounds a bit like equine journalism to my ear, but I’m wrong, says my horse person. Dyslexia, sorry. But it sounds very similar. She may not be the St. Joan of the Abattoirs, but she is the venerable Kirsten with the surname of Germany’s largest meat producer.

Normally she fights for us horses. And against all riders. But now? Practice closed, “reason: whale rescue”. It says so on her homepage. You have to imagine that: As soon as a humpback whale sunbathes on the Baltic Sea beach, the patron saint of animal protection reporting forgets about her core clientele. I could be ridden in a roll cure. With a bit! With draw reins. I could be barred. And no one would be there to stand up for me. For me and my companions. Wait – what did I just say?

CAMERAden.

That’s it. Riding man, pull out your cell phone. Film me. Post me. Turn me into a whale. Then the rescuer will surely come immediately. She can certainly take the direct route. She can certainly walk on water.