My Dogs are Assholes.

See the break in the ground cover and the fresh dirt at that little v?

Monsoon.

Frisky.

Slightly beefier than normal.

Total shoutout to Carly and her gaming OTTB.

Rode last night before the sky split open.  The goal was forward with quicker transitions.  Pony is lazy and spurs make him angry, which I completely understand.  At some point, the neighbors decided that it was a swell time to start shooting things, so in the midst of trying to get Archie to move forward, the pissed off pony also started scooting every time a shot rang out.  I realized pretty quickly that it was a bunch of nonsense, as he's heard those guns a ton of times.  So I made it a non-issue and he agreed.

The barn is doing a kids' camp right now and has a bunch of random stuff set up:  a tarp, a "gate", a "bridge", some barrels, a stop box (I think?), and poles.

We played.

He walked over the tarp no problem, which I actually think would make a swell fake liverpool.

We practiced walking into the little box they had set up, tripping over all the raised pools, and slowly bursting out at a fast walk, then a slow trot, until we could trot a few strides and pick up the canter.  Bursting is not our specialty.

And we did some spins around the barrels at the walk, using my seat bones and legs, and no reins.

But the masterpiece?
Those loud bangs in the background are actually gunshots.  Yes.  And notice the little half-assed front change?!  And the swishy pissed off tail?  God, I love this horse.

In case anyone was wondering, I didn't accept the job offer from the vet's office.  I told her that I would pass the word that she was looking, but that I was content where I am.

The weather has been random lately.  Friday, after the vet visit, I had all intentions of riding.  As we were leaving the office, I had to scrap those plans due to the rolling thunder.  Is this a me thing?  Rain, fine.  Thunder?  Fuck no.  I ended up just going out to the barn and giving Archie a solid grooming, some treats and his beet pulp.

This was disgusting.

You can kinda sorta see the sprinkles on his sun-bleached coat.

While he ate his beet pulp and generally hung out, I opened my most recent SmartPak and discovered that my newest bottles of fly spray had exploded.  I got a whopping $10 to cover the clean up and loss.  Woo.

It leaked all over the cardboard box and the wrapping on the supplements.

Achilles and Lizzie through the dirty glass.

We took Little Shit (aka Achilles) to his third vet visit on Friday.  The hubs finished work early enough to be able to join me.  I don't know if I wrote about the second visit, but it was a snafu:

It was just me and they took the meowser to the back to examine him and get his stats.  I don't particularly appreciate that they take the pets away for examinations - neither of the practices that I worked at did this unless we were simultaneously inserting catheters or hooking up to the EKG - but whatever.  I could understand better draws and stuff, but just temps, CRTs and a physical?

They still have him in the back and the vet, who is a fill-in vet for Thursdays, so the rDVM can perform surgeries, comes in to let me know that they are running the fecal sample.  Er, what?  She apologized and left the room, only to come back in a few minutes later to let me know that they were actually running the heartworm test.  On my cat?  I mean.. cats can get heartworms, but it's not something they routinely test for and isn't easy to diagnosis.  So, point is:  they sure as shit shouldn't be running a test like that on my cat without having had a lengthy client-educating conversation.

Which means that the vet has no fucking clue who my pet is, but came into my room anyways.  Twice.


I was texting D throughout all of this, because Achilles is "his" cat, and he told me to leave.  I didn't.  When the vet finally clued in as to who she was talking to, she apologized profusely and explained that they had just PTS'd a 16 year old Husky.  That's not information that I need.  I can appreciate the emotional investment she has in that patient, but if she can't flip the mental switch between rooms, she ought to have taken a few minutes of personal time to collect herself.  Wipe your eyes and get your game face back on because there are other patients to see.  Store it up and save it for later.

The third fuck up was the prednisone, which she scripted for appetite and anemia.  The only problem was that she didn't give me tapering instructions.  I showed her the bottle and asked about tapering and then she realized that she didn't give me enough to taper properly, nor any instructions.  So I got charged for more pred.  When I was checking out from this second visit, I discreetly told the receptionist that I had concerns.  The primary vet called me back the next day to address them, to apologize, and to actually change the tapering instructions left by the other vet.

Not impressed.

So on the visit Friday, we saw the primary vet.  She apologized again, told us that Achilles looked great, and offered me a job.

This schedule that I'm finagling now has me abandoning my pony for three days straight.  Needless to say, I don't like this.  I'm gonna make some changes, so I'm only abandoning him for two days.  It heightens my anxiety to think of him sitting in a pasture, even though I trust my BM to call me (see: The C Word) if he starts acting wanky.

Anyways, Tuesday my ass went home and spent ninety minutes mowing every bit of grass we've got.  We'd let it go too long and it was like taming a freaking jungle.

Wednesday, I hauled ass to the Humane Society and photographed three litters of kittens and a solitary dog.  Walking to the desk to get my list, a young woman stopped me to ask if I were the photog.  I said yes and she told me that I was doing a great job and to keep it up.  Given the work bullshit that's taken over my mind, I needed that.  So badly.

This says, to me, less "Adopt me, I'm adorable!" and more, "Adopt me, I'm hopeful!"

Trouble.

Then it was off to Krav Maga.  We worked on more holds and, of course, more punching/kicking/and kneeing.  I've accidentally hit every single person that I've spared with and Wednesday was no exception.  Whoops.

I accidentally kneed my trainer in his femur.

Because I'd freed up some time on Thursday, I was able to attend a Zumba class.  Now, I think 90% of Zumba classes are for shit and that it depends solely on the creativity and ability of the trainer.  This trainer has mad skills and feels more like a dancer.  I loves her.

This is all to say that I haven't any pony updates.  But here are some photos I took a few weeks ago of the Kid and some I got of the girls last night, while we grilled.  Blogger ate some of the quality, but I'm okay with that.

I call this, "Love Me, Dammit."

Not my best silhouette.

I love this one.  I don't know why.

I added light leak to this and I don't love it.

But I love this.  This is my spry old lady.

Eleven years old and she will still jump up on a bench and a column, then gracelessly allow me to pick her up and put her back down.

Someone didn't want to lay for the treat.

Savannah.

From the stack of photos that I left the artist, these were his custom interpretations.  Bigger than I initially wanted, but how could I say no?

I liked #3 the best, but I didn't like the big circle in the middle.  It didn't flow well to me, so we adjusted.

This is a weird fucking photo that could potentially be interpreted wrong.  But you can kinda sorta see my regular artist in the background, facing me.

I know I've got a lot of ink, but I'm just gonna say:  this did not hurt.  At all.  

Since I'm now able to track this shit, I can say that my last few rides have essentially felt like water aerobics.

This is when you say, but, Beka, you've been in the deep South for two decades now.  You've been in this little humid hellhole* for almost four years.  Shouldn't you be adjusted?

*Used loosely.  I actually like this place.

Does anyone ever really adjust to 85º+ and 66% humidity?  It's like a blanket, a hot, wet blanket.

It rained during a recent ride!

Fortunately, the Kid has managed pretty damn well.  He started his full dose of OneAC last month and started the beer BID this month.  I've been stockpiling beer in the garage for the last couple of months and, right now, I have enough sitting for the next two.  It's a good feeling.

Post-ride sweaty.

I purchased a fly sheet earlier this season, with lofty aspirations of the Kid adjusting to wearing it, not bleaching out, and not getting mauled by insects on the daily.  I knew that it would eventually get too warm to wear it, but that has not been an issue.  Because the horse absolutely refuses to wear the damn thing.

F this, yo.

He hasn't torn out of it or anything, but he'll stand there and stop grazing.  He'll start twitching.  I've checked for insects and there are none.  Then he'll just bolt, in whatever direction.  All fun and games until he did the bolting thing while loose.  Thankfully, he stopped cantering in the middle of the aisle to my firm "WHOA"s.  I like to think, at least.

My only thought is that the little holes pull on his hair.  I have to imagine that being covered in hair and mesh at the same time could be uncomfortable.

Our rides have been pretty damn decent, too.  This last one, I admitted to myself that I had not been asking my horse for the same level of work and contact that we had previously achieved with our last trainer.  So after warming up, working a bit, and heading towards the end of the ride, I asked him to move forward at a decent pace and with contact.  For a solid lap, I had the drama llama below me.  Then I guess it clicked and he dropped his head and brought himself up.  We held it for a lap, then reversed and cooled at the walk for another lap.  When I asked in that direction, it was an instantaneous agreement and I felt him carry himself immediately.

I sweat.  I sweat like a beast.

My husband is taking an impromptu trip to a city far, far away.  This means that for 24 hours, I will essentially be on my own.
This is momentous.  (And mildly terrifying.)

Y'all that aren't living with your significant others (because they live at a stable, amirite?) might not get the full gravity of this situation.  Twenty-four full hours where my opinion is the deciding factor.  The only factor.  That, and how much money I've got in the bank.

So I might go to a tack store.

Three-ish hours away.  But I'm a fast driver.  That also means that I'm a speeding, inconsiderate driver.

This particular tack store is the one to which I compare all others.  It's huge.  Enormous.  If it's like I remember (and memory tends to inflate), it's just wall to wall of every horse-related thing imaginable, with a gearing towards hunter/jumper and even a section for horse-theme furniture.  A separate room for saddles and jumps.

The other alternative to this is another tattoo.  :)

Home screen.

Talking!

Other screen shots:

Chances are, if you read my blog, you're probably also reading Hillary's and L's.  Because they are 800 times more interesting and use a lot less fucking profanity.  But, in case you missed it:

Hill and I sponsored a retired racehorse a few months ago, in the memory of L's Carlos.  I want to talk a little bit about this, because the organizations we worked with went above and beyond our expectations.


We thought about corgi rescues and we thought about what L already gave to, and Hillary finally found the Thoroughbred Retirement Foundation.  In perusing the website, I saw that we could sponsor a horse, rather than just give a check to the organization at whole.  For whatever reason, attaching a furry muzzle to the situation makes it feel more personable.  Their website lists about a dozen horses who would be available for sponsorship, with photos and snippets about their histories and personalities.  But none of these horses hit home for me.

I sent an email to the organization asked if they would make an exception for our situation - they don't like to deviate from the assigned sponsor horses.  Carlos was a special horse.  We wanted to find an equally special horse to sponsor.  I didn't give too many specifics - California and Latin-bred - but asked if they could find another horse more similar to L's petite bay.

Almost immediately, I got a response saying that they felt it was possible and that the Sponsorship Coordinator would be in contact.  Having been in non-profits before, let me just say:  this is how you acquire and maintain donations.  Be quick, courteous, and always say yes.

The Coordinator was also super fast in her response and non-emotional-me got a little touched by the horse she found.

For L's Senor Prospector of Viva Carlos fame, the Thoroughbred Retirement Foundation found Viva Pentelicus.  Viva is an 18 year old bay gelding who raced 96 times, a number of which occurred in California and where he was now retired.  The name struck me first, but it was when I pulled up his pedigree that I really just.. got the feels.

Can I just point out that Carlos has a mare named Blinking Owl in his pedigree?

You can purchase this soap here.  Use the code "VIVACARLOS" to get 10% off.  The quality of this soap has been proven time and time and time and time and time and time and time again.  Many thanks again to TRF and Libby!