The Runout

Mother ran out on me. She was off cavorting with other horses at a horse show this weekend, while I did NOTHING. Well, I ate hay, and looked for some grass that wasn't too picked over already, which means I got sticktights and other burrs all over me, even though I have no mane or forelock hair. Mother spent quite a few minutes the other day pulling sticktights out of my ears. Owie.

Oh, so anyway, Mother went to a show on Sunday, and rode some horse and got some little bits of colored shiny cloth and seemed awfully happy. She said she was happy to place well when she doesn't get to ride ever. She looked at me kind of funny when she said that... I'm not sure what that's about. Humans are weird sometimes.

And that's not the worst. Apparently, Mother and Aunts Margie, Marion, and Karin are heading off East and will probably see some guy named Earl. They are going to go see the Banker ponies, but Earl may meet up with them and keep them from going. Who is this guy?

Oh, and Mother won't be around to give me my good night cookies for days. Woe is me. She's been gone so much these last few weeks already, saying she has a lot to do at work due to an impending hos(pi)tile takeover. Sigh.

Talk about a runout! Why gallivant across the country when all the beauty you could ever want is right here at home? For that matter, why even go to work?

Humans have such odd priorities.

It's never enough

Losing my mane and forelock was embarrassing enough. Now Mother is talking about taking me to a costume class. It sounds like it will involve either black enhancements, or white enhancements. She says my mane will be perfect by then.

The zebra option

The gra Fjord option

I do kind of like the Fjords, I guess. But the zebra? Totally not me!

Finding your Happy Place

I had my tooth floated yesterday. Mother has the vet come out every six months to work on the tooth that opposes my missing tooth, since it never gets worn down, and Mother doesn't want it to get to the point where it is sharp or otherwise uncomfortable for me. None of my other teeth needed anything this time, so it went pretty quickly. Mother wasn't adept enough to get pictures while holding my head for the vet.

But what I really wanted to talk about was how wonderful veterinarians are. Sometimes they just poke you in the side of the neck, in your muscle, and that doesn't really hurt, but really, it doesn't do much for me. Now, if they go for the vein... this is your chance. It's one of my favorite things.

Have you ever looked for your Happy Place?

I mean really, really looked?

Relax your focus... Look deeply into the puddle... Can you see it? 

I can see it.

I'm seeing the Happy Place. Don't be distracted by my fat donkey...

Look for the Happy Place, and you, too will find it.

If you need help, there are several excellent veterinarians I can direct you to.

That which you fear shall come to pass

So, this was that sight that greeted Mother this evening. 

She was not amused. And, I admit the whole tugging, pulling, hair-yanking nonsense day after day to remove the burrs is getting well past old.

I was artistic at least, don't you think? 

Even my braids didn't help much. They did make it easier to comb out, but they still attracted burrs.

Don't forget the back end...

So...

I have been shorn.

Mother says my neck is still nice enough to pull off the no hair look. I blame Mother for my neck not being as pretty as it used to be... my tiny teeny hole hay bag is causing the underside of my neck to become more muscular.

My tail now...

I admit, it is nice to have Mother curry where my mane grows from... the lightness, the freedom. And the flies have been not too bad this year, so I didn't really need all that extra hair, anyway. She said my forelock wasn't helping much when it was just a clump of burrs; I suppose she has a point. And I am really excited to not have to spend anywhere from a quarter of an hour up to two hours an evening being deburred, perhaps unbraided and rebraided... sigh. What price freedom?

I blame it on Fenway Bartholomule, personally. He made it look so chic, how was Mother to resist?

Battle of the Burrs

Mother is upset with me because I am such a good forager. She claims it is all the burrs that are driving her nuts, but it's not my fault that I have to look under certain plants to find sustenance.

The aunts went on a herbicidal mission earlier this spring, and large areas that were burdock infested were eradicated. They also have a brush cutter. All their good faith attempts are for naught.

I still come in every day with burrs. I have stick-tights all down my legs. Mother tried braiding up my mane... now all my braids clump together. Most every evening she grumblingly removes all the hitchhikers, slathers more Cowboy Magic on so the next batch will also slide off the hair fairly easily, and tells me to stay out of the burrs or she'll cut all my hair off.

Henhenhen, I remember when Devlin and I lived here that first winter, he found a patch of burdock that had been cut down and was going to be burned. He rolled in the patch (wonderful for all that itches) and Mother was VERY unhappy at pulling dozens, maybe hundreds of burrs from his long winter coat.

See Mother, it could be worse.

Type C Personality

There are several personality types out there, you know... Type A, always animated, agitated and anxious. Then there is Type B... broadly speaking, the basic barely breathing bore. Then there is Type C. Mother is a Type C.

Now, that is partly because Mother caters to me. She cleans my stall, she cleans my water buckets and feed tub, she cleans my coat, and even my hooves. She cooks me dinner, provides me with cookies... as you can tell, that is a lot of Cs.

However, the C also stands for controlling, and Mother does that a lot, especially lately. She counts calories for me (not necessary, truly), has cut back my good hay, although increasing my crummy hay... life is all about trade offs once one accepts domestication, I have discovered.

She controls not only my food, and my turnout times, but also what could/should be leisure time with her... she likes to tell me where to go, how quickly to go there, and sometimes it is just around in circles around her! Today, we were ground driving in the back pasture, and we kept disturbing the deer grazing there. I admit, even without the deer, I was feeling a little frisky. I kept trying to encourage her to let me trot, but NO. So at one point, even though I'd seen the deer plenty of times already, I decided to make the drive more interesting because it had crept decidedly into B mode... I did a tiny dance, and a little levitation of the front end. Mother made no comment, just requested me to walk on.

Later she mentioned it was a pretty little rear, not as balanced as a levade, but not bad. Since I didn't hit the lines going up, and I was so light, and I was already in an obvious mood, she ignored my high spirits.

There are advantages to being a horse that nothing is expected of; there are no goals to strive for. If I chose to rear in the lines, really, what's the harm? I'm not pulling on her, I'm not endangering her. Well, that's my view, anyway.

I am awakening her to a whole new way of enjoying horsedom. Now, if we could just continue the trend of relinquishing the control side of the C, and get her to concentrate more on the catering side of C... like COOKIES!!!!

Good News, Bad News

Good News! Mother has found cookies I can eat. They are the IR cookies from Withers and Withers, and I am so happy. It's almost like my life is normal again...

Bad News: Mother insists on putting the grazing muzzle on me at night. Aparently, the one I dislodged and hid so stealthily is not the only one in existence, because Mother brought another one to the barn and I am stuck wearing it at night when I go out. I kind of want to cry.

Good News... well, at least I go out every night, even if I do have to wear the horrible thing. And Aunt Marilyn takes it off for a few minutes up to an hour in the morning before I come in for my hay breakfast and nap.

Bad News... or is it good? I am starting to get a few rubs. Nothing major, but I am hoping Mother will decide I shouldn't wear it... that would be GREAT NEWS!!!!



At least there are cookies again. I was starting to wonder for a while what Mother was even good for, since I received no cookies, but had to wear the dreadful muzzle. I'd be better off on my own!

Oh, and I would really like to find the human that invented this contraption... really.