Archie had a visit with the farrier last week.  New farrier is a funny guy:

Me:  ...Yeah, and his racing name was Bold Archer.
Him:  I can see why you dropped the bold.

I'm pretty effing happy with the work he's done and want to show a six-months fugly foot difference:

August on left, February on right. Stress crack is officially gone!

In other Archer news, we're back under saddle.  His skin still looks like shit and he still has giant bald patches, so I'm probably a horrible human being for putting my not-so-delicate weight on his tender tender fleshies, but he has yet to tell me to fuck myself and seems to have enjoyed himself.  Knock on wood.

Wednesday of last week, I put my Collegiate on him and hopped on in my work pants and mustard yellow mules.  I very gently tossed my weight across his back before I put a foot in the stirrup, just to make sure he was okay.  We walked two laps around the outside of the ring and called it a night.
Saturday, I changed his bit out (more to come on that after more trial) and immediately took him out to the river.  He balked in one spot, which was at another path in the trail and I almost feel like was a request to go exploring and later had the tiniest shuffle of feet, not to be confused with a spook.  I took him to the ring afterwards and walked a couple laps before cuing him to trot.


And my ouchy, arthritic gelding took off in the most comfortable, rhythmic rolling canter.  For two laps.  Reverse and, by god, the old guy did it again.

Sunday, the other boarder and I met up again for a little trail ride.  My horse is amazing.  He had nearly four weeks off and gave no fucks about anything.