Saturday, January 18, 2014

One Wet Kiss

Long time readers may recall that my horse Gabbrielle used to kiss me all the time when she was a filly and young mare.  Each time I walked into the paddock, she would stop whatever she was doing and walk up to me stretching her neck and sticking her muzzle toward my face.  Then she'd press her lips to my lips or cheek or forehead.  Well, she outgrew that, and it seemed that my requests for kisses just embarrassed her.  I stopped asking for kisses, because the mere request caused her to turn her head away from me, and that made me sad.

When Rock came along, part of the way I worked on getting him to stop biting everyone was to teach him how to kiss.  I showed him that he can interact by just using his lips and not his teeth.  He figured out that when he used his teeth, he got swatted away and chased off, but when he used his lips, he got praised, hugged and petted.  So, now Rock is my kissing horse.  Being the youngest, he tolerates it more.

Boy, was I surprised this morning when I was closing each of the horses into their stalls and Gabbrielle turned around to face me, stretched out her neck, and planted a wet one right on my lips!  I wonder what made her have a change of heart.  Maybe it's because I've just been spending a lot of time hugging my horses instead of riding them over the past few days.  

The tree trimmer left yesterday morning, but now two other neighbors have started up demolition and construction projects.  'Tis the season, I guess.  All the laborers prefer to have jobs now before temperatures get into the triple digit range.  Bombay was bouncing off the walls with boredom, dipping a ripped up Jolly Ball into a water trough and then swinging it around and spraying everyone with water.  Rock was kicking and rolling an empty water trough around.  Lostine kept pulling the hose out of the water trough I was filling, so I sprayed all of them with the hose and they got their jollies out rolling in the sand after that.  (Yes, I know how fortunate I am to be able to spray my horses with water in January.)

I took Bombay for a walk out in the desert, because every time I planned to tack him up for a ride, something happened to prevent it.  After the sixth interruption I decided that Someone didn't want me to ride, and I should respect that.  These things happen for a reason.  I was especially convinced not to ride when my son called and told me that one of his professors this semester has brain damage from falling off a race horse.  Not something you want to hear right before you go for a ride, but a good reminder to stay safe and be aware that anything can happen, even with the calmest, sweetest horses.  I discovered that my helmet has a dent in it after I flew off Rock, even though my head never actually hit the ground.  I guess it hit a branch in the bush I landed in.  I may be in the market for a new helmet, which is good because I'm tired of looking like a brussel sprout.  Anyway, instead of riding, Bombay and I found a shady little grove out in the desert and he grazed on fresh grass while I used him as a pillow.  So soft, so fuzzy.

Squishy.  Squishy, squishy, squishy.

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