Of Intrigue and Infiltration

Each day as I leave the house, I am graced with a cacophony of pony sounds. Coffee has turned into the official barn greeter. Every morning I hear his slight nicker. This is followed by Dusty, who echoes his voice a little louder, and Melody, who whinnies. Eventually I even hear Braz’s hopeful neigh from inside the barn. It’s such a pleasant feeling to be so loved and needed. This early morning tradition might stem from the fact that I’m their meal ticket, but I like to believe the feelings are somewhat deeper.

I finished most of the chores early so I’d be prepared for my 12:30 lesson. We had some issues to discuss, as I learned yesterday that our “intrigues” had become public knowledge. (This adult student is a parent to two of my young students, and she’d been secretly taking horse lessons from me. Yesterday she finally told the girls what she’d been up to. In my brain, however, I use words like “infiltrated our network” to describe what happened. I might like my life simple, but there’s no excuse for allowing simple to equal boring. ) The adult is progressing nicely, and I feel she’s ready to branch out a little on her riding. Today we did Western instead of English. (I like to live on the edge.)

I was delighted to see two boarders here today. It wasn’t a pleasant day for the weather, so I was surprised anyone had ventured out. I needn’t be, though. I have excellent, dedicated horsewomen who board here. I think it helps that I advertise Firefly as preferring people who have an interest in natural horsemanship. (“Riders” only think of getting on the horse. Horsewomen think about what the horse thinks/feels/prefers.) I am pleased to share that both boarders who came today to visit played from the ground. That’s not to say I prefer people to stay off their horses–quite the contrary. I’m only saying that I am grateful they can see their horses as something more than a living go-kart. You don’t visit a go-kart unless you plan to ride. I’m grateful we have horsewomen instead of riders.

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