Going to Water
After a trail ride, I shower, re-anoint with fly sparay and feed Panache a couple quarts of grain. Then, since he's field boarded, I take him across the big field down to the spring in the woods for a drink. He follows either at my shoulder or alonside, "at liberty". As we pass the other horses, they fall in behind- suddenly realizing they've been dying of thirst for hours but the collective decision had not reached the critical mass necessary to brave the dangers of going to water.
The spring bubbles under a huge tree making a cool, quiet, idyllic scene until the horses churn it to mud, guzzle, swill , slurp the chocolate water making obscene sucking noises with their hooves in the muck. A horsefly lands on Charlie Clyesdale's fat rump and this gooey garden of porcine delight erupts in a frantic thrashing of little horses colliding with other little horses while trying to get out of the way of 1800 pounds of frenzied draft blindly flailing about to dislodge the fly. Staccato bursts of flatulence mark the hasty course of his journey back to the field, followed by his bedraggled pals.
God, I'm so glad I'm not a horse!
Have Fun!
Bob Griffith and Panache - Well, what about crime in the cities?