I went to check on the horses yesterday morning and found that Honey had had an argument with something in the field:
This would be the third time she’s minced herself and, as usual, she decided there was absolutely no call for me to whip out the wound powder, salt water and sponges. Unfortunately, Honey has an aversion to being touched, is built like a tank and about as cooperative as an angry hippo, so the father was introduced to wrestle her into submission while I cleaned her up.
Honey has several party tricks and she utilised all of them in an attempt to avoid what I think she saw as unnecessary prodding. These included refusing to move while I tried to get her out of the field, changing her mind and diving for the grass once I’d waved several carrots in front of her, refusing to lift her head from said grass, tossing her head every time I tried to reattach her lead rope, biting everything that moved and flinging her head up as far as it would go as soon as she saw the bowl of water. Of course, being precisely 12.2hh (48in, for those of you unfamiliar with equine measurements), this last one didn’t really do anything except remove the need for me to lean down.
Her biggest party trick of all is her ability to produce terrifying fountains of blood from the smallest wounds. When I actually managed to have a look at what she’d done, her shoulder injuries consisted of four inch-long shallow grazes and the cut on her face was already completely clean and, once I got her tidied up, turned out to be smaller than a five pence piece and already scabbed over. Nevertheless, I directed copious jets of wound powder into everywhere I thought she might benefit having it and by the end, she was back to her sparkling white self. Of course, as soon as the powder falls off, she’ll be brown again, but at least she wasn’t pink (seriously, pink is Not Good, despite what Barbie thinks).
I checked on her again this morning and she was completely back to normal, by which I mean she was pacing the fence and screeching for her hay. And I can assume there’s no lasting damage because when I left she had her face buried in the hay pile and was refusing to acknowledge my existence. Unlike Pepper, who was taking delicate mouthfuls of hay and then striking a pose, which allowed me to take plenty of photos (I’ve never met a horse who likes being photographed so much):
As you can see, it was a glorious day, by which I mean the sun was out, it wasn’t blowing a gale and the rain wasn’t pouring. And, as is the norm whenever the weather decides to behave, I got called into work for an emergency shift. As I got home, the wind was picking up, the clouds were piling in and the weather forecast for tomorrow looks like something you’d find in a sewer. Yay, England!