Civil Liberties

My civil liberties have been infringed upon. Trampled, really. Mother, I now realize, is a dictator. A benign (for the most part) dictator, but a dictator none the less, capable of monstrous deeds.

Exhibit A

Clearly, my freedom of speech has been stripped.  My freedom of expression, destroyed... I can still pin my ears, but not being able to bite Bert is unacceptable. Most importantly, my freedom of EATING is being restricted.

And this thing would not come off!

I first tried snorting it off. Nope. I tried for a long time to rub it off using the ground, my leg, the ground, my leg, the ground... So close to freedom, just keep trying... uunnnnh... no. Still on there.

I sought help. I tried to remove this abomination from my face by rubbing it on Bert. No luck.

I next tried Belle... surely that would do the trick. But, alas, failure.

It was very worrisome. I felt like I couldn't breath normally. What if I start drooling, and I drown in there? Mother told me that was silly, as there were all those holes, but it's just creepy, creepy, creepy.

The worst thing about it was not being able to eat. Mother gave me some cookies through the hole in the bottom. She stuffed bits of grass up in there, and hay. So I followed her around, at her mercy for a little sustenance. She told me I could figure it out. AAGHHH!!

And all this because I am a little plump? That is prejudicial, biased and unfair. I mean, look at this, and then tell me I am the fat one:

Alternate view:

Talk about double standards. What a fat donkey!  I don't have any lumps or bulges like that. But does he have to wear a torture thingy? NO!

Mother says as my care giver (dictator),  it is up to her to best provide for my wellbeing, and I need to shed a few pounds for my overall health, but especially my leg. And true, she only left it on for a couple of hours, it wasn't all night. But what if she leaves it on forever? I would just start to slowly fade away...

If being less plump is so important, I guess I can lose a few pounds, but there has got to be a better way...

As it is, I fear I shall lose all faith in humanity... or at least Mother.

Uh, how do I contact the ACLU? They represent equines, right?

Modern Marvel: Fly Spray

I have a secret confession... I love fly spray. I do not, as previously mentioned, care for fly masks. I find Swat in my ears and on bug-biting body bits is tolerable. I hate when Mother puts Gnataway (or Gnatural cream, or whatever they're calling it these days) on me. It's slimy, creamy texture gives me the heebie jeebies. Mother says Cappy used to love when she applied it, but I certainly don't! Swat doesn't feel the same, so I deal.

I will admit I did not like fly spray when I was introduced to it. Mother at first would spray some on her hand, then apply it to my coat. After a few days, she wasn't always the most careful sprayer, and some mist would find my hide when she sprayed it into her hand. I was not pleased, but not bothered enough to move away. After a few days of that, she would do the first one on her hand, then spray me as she swept her hand along my hide, as if she was still wiping. Fine, whatever.

Fast forward two years. I, freshly groomed, stand patiently in the cross ties, eager to go consume green, green grass... yummm.



Oh, so anyway, she walks out with two bottles of fly spray, and just starts double barreling me. It's awesome.
The sky turns bluer, the grass greener, I can hear the cats moving around in the house, I smell purple... oh, I mean, uh... uhhhmm.

About last summer, I made an important discovery: Fly spray keeps the flies AWAY! No more frantic runs up to the others in the herd, hoping the fly will pick a better target. Much less flinging and swinging, trying to remove the little monsters from my person.

It's the best invention since the rubber curry. Maybe better, because I can always just rub against a tree or something, but fly spray... wow. I can't think of a better invention, except Mrs. Pastures cookies.

Pride and Prejudice

I have been disfigured! Look, look, it's clearly visible!

 What do you mean, you can't see it? Stop looking at my fat donkey in the background. Look at me!

See it? You can hardly miss it. Mother, in her questionable human wisdom, had me wear my fly mask. It is a black, funny film that goes all over my face and down my nose. It also has tight yet strangely stretchy tubes that trouble my ears.

I told her I didn't want to wear it. She was insistent, and I acquiesced. Well the bottom moved around on my poor little schnozzle all night as I chewed, chewed, chewed out in the pasture. 

I got a rub spot. 

As if that wasn't bad enough... NOW look at me!

Pink Swat, too? Aren't I allowed just a little pride, a little dignity? Has she no shame?

No discretion? 

Sigh. She'll probably try to say that, on my dark skin, it looks purple.

But I know the truth...

Requests

Mother,

My tail is not a towel. Please quit using it as such. It does not require pink Swat, or GnatAway, or any of the other stuff you wipe in there to try to clean your hands off. I know I have never complained before, but this is getting ridiculous. There is water and some soap RIGHT OUT THERE. Please use it.

Thanks!
Boyfriend

PS~ Thank you for not posting the humiliating picture where I am rolling over uphill (also butt high uphill), and got stuck and my pink Swatted belly was clearly visible. I finished just fine, didn't I?

PPS~ Please don't post the picture of my pink ears. A little dignity, is it too much to ask?

Mother's Wolf

Mother's Sasha is one of my favorite dogs. She actually comes to the barn to visit, unlike the yard dogs, who strangely never go past the driveway, and often bark at me if I go past them on the drive. I can not stand a barking dog. One of the reasons Sasha is my favorite is she never barks at us horses; she would often just make her way past, tail waving, as she went about her rounds of making sure the property line was secure. Her property line seemed to extend well past where my pasture fence ends...

One neighbor mentioned, shortly after Sasha moved in a few years ago, that they thought they were seeing a coyote around more. I cautioned Sasha not to get "shot for coyote", like ranchers might do back home in North Dakota. Since she was deaf, though, I'm not sure she heard me, she just continued on her merry way. I believe the neighbors were informed that she was in fact a "human's wolf".

Mother managed to get a few pictures of her last month. She was frustrated because Sasha was in motion and wouldn't stand still for a good shot. I wouldn't have guessed there was anything wrong with her, other than the deaf thing.

Last week she went on a car ride with Mother and Mr. Smothers, and when she came up by the barn she smelled like the vet who gives me shots, and stitches me if I get hurt. He's nice.

This past week Sasha hasn't been up by the barn at all, which isn't like her, although I saw her occasionally in the yard, and mostly only on the porch in the last few days. She seemed to be spending a lot of time inside the house. Then she went with the humans on a car ride this afternoon.

Today all the humans were sad as they came up to let us out in the grass pasture, and went off by themselves and started digging. I overheard them saying how she had been at least 15 years old, and probably closer to 17.  I heard them use weird words like kidneys and lab values and other things I don't really know anything about.

I realized Sasha had gone home. 

Happy hunting, good dog.

The Problem with Popularity: Paparazzi

So I was minding my own business, taking some personal time to myself... just daydreaming, really...

When out of nowhere, the cameras show up!!

 Um... excuse me? 

Uhh.. Nothing to see here. Move along.

Please, just move along!

Do I come into your home and watch you during your private moments?

Honestly! Never a moment to myself!

Fame can be such a hardship...

Blobby

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder... well, so is fat.

Mother thinks I am fat. Too fat. She tells me this on a regular basis. I am not sure that would be good for my morale, if I were a lesser animal, but I know I am beautiful, so I am undaunted.

I enter into evidence, exhibit number 1.

Exhibit number 2.

What, may I ask, appears to you to be superfluous? Is this not the embodiment of equine grace and beauty?

Apparently... this is what Mother sees:

So I am in a modified fat camp. She ground drives me a few days a week, and now she even lets me long line trot around her. She figures my joint can deal with the exercise, since I run around on my own anyway. "Since I run around on my own anyway"... So how is this supposed to help me lose weight?

Note the plant hanging off my lips, despite Mother's attempts at grazing check reins (the funny looking purple things from belly to halter).

Do you like my Contraption? That's what Mother calls the creepy pole thing. 

I have pulled it twice so far driving, and once before that being led. It's not so bad.  I had pulled the poles without the connecting bit in the back a lot of times over the months, so it wasn't a big deal. In fact, the connector seems to smooth out the jostling of the poles.

Mother says she wants to get a harness to teach me more, although I may never end up doing "everything". That sounds kind of creepy, plus I am not sure what a harness is anyway. She has stuck a breastplate and crupper on me before, and hung straps all over me (which I don't really like, but tolerate because they don't really hurt me). She said a harness is kind of like that, but better. It better be better.

All this to earn a few cookies at the end of the day. 

Sigh. 

Sometimes, domestication is such hard work...

Demon Dog

You may remember the demon dog from my story of The Posthorse Always Snorts Twice. The dog in question:

Mother says, "She's not that bad... In fact she is rather sweet."

I don't know. The first time I met her, when I arrived back at Aunt Marilyn's, she just hung around the trailer and followed me part of the way up the drive, and that was OK.

But when she barks.... I don't trust her!

Le Dauphin

Mother may have discovered my true name!

Mother often laments that my name is Boyfriend, because apparently other humans think it is kind of a funny name for a horse. She spent the first few months that she owned me trying other words, but none of them was my name, if you know what I mean.  I tolerate Bif because that is what so many people call me. Uncle Jeff called me Nokota and I answered to that, because it was technically correct.

So, last night Mother was running her hand over me and she kept brushing off lots of little grit. It made her think of dolphins, who continually shed their skins to be fast fast fast, and she remembered there is a royal title named the Dauphin. It happens to be French, like my real name. So she tried calling me Dauphin, and I knew she was talking about me! It's about time she realizes my true status.

Of course, she'll probably just keep calling me Boyfriend, because she sounds a little strange and pretentious, and her lips look funny when she tries to pronounce Dauphin.

As long as she brings me cookies, either name is acceptable. And yes, that is pronounced "EYE-ther". I'm royalty, after all.