Dear Excellent Equines and Bemusing Bipeds,
I told Jane if she did not stop calling anti-septic smelling humans to look at me, I would have her investigated. Per usual, she did not believe me. Please note my casual “what?” glance back at Jane. Me? I have hooves. How would I dial?
Works every time.
The first anti-septic smelling human that came used me as a pincushion. Then, he embarrassingly studied my…digestively-processed feed…under a microscope, reporting back loudly that HUDSON DOES NOT HAVE WORMS.
Humans. Have you no decency? There were cute mares around. How would you like it if I informed your potential dates that you did not have worms?
The day after being used as a testing ground for sharp metal points, I didn’t feel so good. My neck swelled up, and I admit, I wanted Jane to stay and read me Black Beauty. I felt that sick: I wanted Black Beauty. And cookies. I must have regressed emotionally. I’ve read things like this happen.
(I hate Chick Lit.)
Do you know what Jane did? I did not lay restfully with my head in her lap while she gently stroked my forelock, and read to me about Merry Legs. She pressed a large, flat, freeze brand on the swelling, and held it there. OW.
I. Am. A. Saint.
She shoved a syringe in my mouth, and squirted that nasty paste in my cheek. Yes, it made the hot swollen thing feel better, but…BLECH.
At least I made her do this twice. She knows I will spit it out, so she holds my chin up in the air until I swallow. I pretended to swallow. She let go of my chin, I opened my mouth, and out plops a nice line of paste. HA! (Second time, I was not so lucky.)
Next, finally, I have my chiropractor. I love this human. LOVE. I knew my atlas was out, but he said my whole right side was a mess. Something about more work would be good. And massage. And tons of carrots and cookies. Jane, I’m thinking a massage twice a day would help?
Days later, I see something else good: the trailer is hooked up! Jane is going to reward me for my good behavior!
I jump in fully expecting to see STEERS when I jump out.
It was my dentist. He tells the worst jokes. They’re all human jokes, and most are baffling. I ask you, if a joke started out “A horse walked into a bar…” wouldn’t you all immediately wince, knowing the horse hit himself on the bar? His punch lines never match the preceding tale.
Strangely, I like him. Not crazy about the head harness/pulley system, but by then I’m feeling oddly relaxed and don’t much care.
After that was the Week it Hurt To Eat and then my stomach felt uncomfortable, which was torture. But at least it got me tons of hand walking and riding in the halter.
I’d be the most awesome dressage horse on the planet if Jane lost the bridle. A fact I never cease to remind her about. No saddle + no bridle = perfect shoulder-in and canter pirouette.
She says No WAY. She claims I will trot down the centerline, halt at X, and yawn as widely as possible, so the judge would know my opinion of dressage. (She’s right.)
At least I’m getting a lot of the good stuff: pellets top-dressed with all kinds of exotic food. She must have given in to my personal chef request. Nice.
This was not enough to stop my FBI phone call, however. Someone must quench the parade of humans that smell like anti-septic.
Jane says “Hudson, a real FBI vehicle would be a car.”
Wrong. The FBI isn’t stupid. They’d use a golf cart to blend in: common item around barns. Obviously, I watch more CSI and crime drama than Jane. (I can see the TV from my paddock.)
If the FBI doesn’t make all this poking and prodding stop, I’m going to try something called the “IRS”? I don’t know what IRS stands for, but lately I’ve heard a lot of humans speaking about it with a great deal of anxiety.
IRS must be Special Ops.
Jane, consider yourself on probation.