Blog
Brief Sabbatical
I have decided the most dangerous activity I do is not riding.
It is not driving on the Houston freeways.
It is not even eating my own cooking.
It’s sleeping.
Somehow—and I don’t know how—I managed to pull something in my rotator cuff while sleeping. We can skip over all the condolences bits—I have prescription pain pills. Life is good. I am also faithfully practicing lots and lots of RICE—reading, ice cream, etc. Again, life is good.
I am more or less forbidden—on pain of pain—from doing anything at the barn more strenuous than breathing. I tried pointing out to the doctor that the shoulder only really hurts if I do *this* and that if I was doing *that* on horseback, I had bigger problems than a pulled rotator cuff, and he said sure, go ahead and ride, and after I tore it some more, we could schedule surgery. I’m thinking I’ll behave myself for a couple weeks and not risk pulling it some more.
But he didn’t ban me from going to the barn (probably because I didn’t tell him my car is a stick shift), so at least I’ll get out on weekends and watch some lessons. …
Horses in Literature
Chiquita
Beautiful! Sire, you may say so. Thar isn’t her match in the country.
Is thar, old gall—Chiquita, my darling, my beauty!
Feel of that neck, sir—thar’s velvet! Who! Stady—ah, will you, you vixen!
Whoa! I say. Jack, trot her out; let the gentleman look at her paces.
Morgan!—she ain’t nothing else, and I’ve got the papers to prove it.
Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won’t buy her.
Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of Tuolumne?
Busted hisself in White Pine, and
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