August has come to Florida, and I am exhausted.
I know, the time-stamp on this post is June 7th. To be fair, it still feels like June 6th… the longest June 6th ever, and I’ve known a few. We spent the day packing and working horses and then, to add insult to injury, I had to go to work as well! While I was there I ate some delicious dinner my husband cooked me and watched a fireworks show… it was brutal.
Seriously, though, this is the blog post without a point, because at this point in my rapidly changing little atmosphere, I can barely draw breath.
The nicely consistent thing has been the horses: Upper West Side, finally realizing that she can move her hind leg, despite the fact that she cut her hip a week ago (or was it two weeks ago?)… Sunset Park, chewing adorably on my pony tail and making voracious stallion noises at the old broodmare… and Final Call, shrugging off the heat and going out for an easy ride and popping over a fence to boot.
Consistency – even though I have never been able to give it, my horses give it to me. I might feed them at one o’clock in the morning or eight o’clock in the morning, but no matter when I do it, their mannerisms will remain unchanged. Final Call will go into every stall but his own, and have to be led in. The filly will go lightly into her stall, and wait silently. The colt will go into his stall and then shout. The broodmare will whicker in that old, breathy, high-pitched whinny of hers. And every morning when I walk outside, the whole farm neighs their good morning.
I’m looking forward to always walking into a barn in the morning and hearing the good morning whinnies. My life would not be complete without it. I may be a city girl, but that’s one country noise that is music to my ears. I’m not enamoured with roosters, I can happily live without cows, and I don’t mind buying my produce at a market. I will always prefer the sound of a siren to the sound of the neighbor’s peacock. (Who wouldn’t?) The one thing I must be able to count on, though, is the genuine pleasure in a horse’s nicker, when I come walking through the door. Hot and humid, cold and snowy, does it even matter? The horses remain the same.