Out of the stinking blue yesterday, Duke's mom called me.  I sent that shit to voicemail because 1) I hate talking on the phone, 2) I hate "catching up" and 3) I can think of nothing worse than catching up on the phone.

So she told me to call her back so we could catch up.

And I actually did.

I called her while I was driving to the barn today on my lunch break.  I'm not fortunate enough to work near to the barn to make it there on my break, so I ended up using a little bit of vacation time, too.  I think a reattached shoe is well worth an hour of vacation time.

She had moved the Dukester to a super fancy, super expensive show barn on the other side of the river.  He was incorporated into their lesson program, so she doesn't pay anything towards his upkeep.  Crazy, right?  She was telling me that they injected his hocks, because "all the horses get their hocks injected."  This is like the fourteenth sequential conversation about hock injections and I almost feel like the world is telling me to jump on the hock band wagon again.  But I won't.  Because I don't think he needs it right now.  (I envision him bucking me off later today and staring pointedly between me and his hocks before shaking his head and calling me a fucktard under his breath.)

Also, when Duke was with us, our farrier said that his hoof wall couldn't support shoes.  She tried to explain what contraption they had on him now, but all I gathered was rubber and wedges.  Glued shoes, maybe?

I left that part of the conversation feeling like they've done all these things just to keep him jumping.  He's a big, beautiful, and willing horse and probably adds a little bit of shine to their program.  But I wonder what his owner is going to be left with when they're done with him.

The purpose of her call was to put out feelers.  I knew it would be.  She asked questions about the barn and BO and crap like that.  She wants to go backpacking across Europe, has for years, and feels that if she doesn't do it now that she never will.  I gave her my opinion:  BO would never take on another horse for free;  BO stated that she wouldn't be buying another horse after Skinny Guy passes; and then I gave her contract advise.  I'm not sure that what little I offered to the conversation stuck.

After the phone call, I met the farrier at the barn.  I got there a little early and cleaned up the Kid a bit.  He was a little curious but mostly bored with me.  I let the nibble game go on too long and he bit me.  Love nip!

Waiting.

Farrier said that the Kid has been perfect, absolutely perfect, for him.  This makes me very happy.  I asked if he thought Archie could ever go barefoot up front (I'd love to have a barefoot horse).  He said no.  Ringbone.

I forget, sometimes, how broken the Kid's body actually is.

BO asked me the other day if he'd ever been abused because he shied when she went to pet him between his eyes.  1) Stop petting my pony.  2) Don't pet a horse where he can't see.

So, this weekend?  Ride the Kid.  Go work out/run.  Look at houses.  Paint my nails.  Woo.

Something, something, zero - two - one?

One of my absolute, without fail, rules:  NO SMOKING AT THE BARN.