Thursday, March 29, 2012

I rode my horse today.  (Note to self - he is insane.)  Anyway, after twenty minutes of trying to mount him, after a discussion about how he was going to stand still so I could get on - and I'm sure he agreed, too - then having to take a break to get a Dramamine from the spinning and whirling, we meandered out the driveway.  Meandering, for a horse like my Blitz, usually involves hooves flashing and gravel flying.  People duck and run for cover.  The 18 wheeler that was going by as we came to the road  was a total drama queen, because he nearly ran into the opposite ditch trying to avoid us. 

Despite his name and general mannerisms and behavior, Blitz is quite a calm horse.  Eventually.  Nothing much phases him. total bomb proof.  Honest.  Would I lie to you?  He just likes to look all big and bad, which is kind of hard when he's a little shrimp of a horse, and yet again this winter he lost weight to the point of emaciation.  He's down to 775 and looks like a skeleton.  Perfectly healthy, the vet says, but a hard keeper.  Yeah, no kidding.  All my other little roly poly ponies are doing fine.  I have to have the pitiful looking fella that looks like he's been in a Nazi death camp. 

Anyway, Blitz and I head down the road.  "Let's run!"  he urges, bobbing his head enthusiastically.

"Let's dodge that semi, instead," I suggest.

He sighs and wanders into the ditch.  "This is boring.  Can we run now?" 

"Watch out for the shattered beer bottle right there."


Nope, another semi.  By the time we got to the possible trail I've been eyeballing for the last four months, we edged off the road, checking both ways for gun-toting neighbors.  There were no posted signs, but after our last adventure, you can never be sure.  No shots rang out, so we hit the trail... and the skies opened.  A downpour to rival Noah's flood started.  Ten percent chance of showers, my sweet patootie.

Now, I'm no sissy, and I can handle a little rain.  I'm not so sweet I'll melt, right?  But here's the problem - hearing aids.  I take them out and stuff them in my pockets, but that only does so much good, considering my britches are getting pretty dern wet, too.  All I needed was a bottle of shampoo, and I'd have been squeeky clean.

Add to this, we were on a very rugged trail.  This is our kind of trail - no manicured prissy trail for us, no sir.  We had to duck under branches (well, I did, and Blitz does like to go under the lowest limbs, the darling little donkey) and jump over fallen trees.  Next thing you know, Blitz takes off at that run I've been promising him, and branches are coming faster and faster, wetter and wetter, smacking and slapping me right in the face.  I did not like that.

Suffice it to say, we got home a whole lot faster than we got there, and wouldn't you know the trail we were on led us straight back to the gun-toter's brother's house.  He must not have been home, though, cuz I'm still alive to write this here story.

My hearing aid may not be.  One of them got wet and is taking a rice bath as we speak.

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