Going to see Murphy turned into a Daisy and Jane Road Trip.
It was an unusual Daisy and Jane Road Trip.
We didn’t get lost, eat junk food, do a Mafia exchange for a baby goat beneath a deserted freeway underpass, or accidentally drive through anyone’s broccoli, because we missed the mare wearing a bikini.
Actually, the goat/Mafia/broccoli was a Daisy, Bella and Jane Road Trip. Three of us together somehow sideswipe the universal Road Trip trajectory potentials. Weird things happen. Like goat payoffs.
A new RT trajectory formulation started the second Daisy picked up her keys.
She said: “We’re leaving the back open for Mike, he’s bringing me the Zebra because he’s moving. But it’s a loaner. I don’t get to keep it. Even if it’s a forever loan.”
Daisy rolls her eyes at the stupidity of loaner Zebras vs. non-loaner Zebras.
Well, duh. Zebra’s Are Forever.
“Do you care if we pick up my dry cleaning on the way?”, Daisy asks.
“No. I’m good with dry cleaning.” I pack my camera bag into her Jeep. Zebra? I rack my brain. Who’s Mike?
We’re driving. Her cell rings. The Jeep answers. I love technology.
“Hey Mike.”, Daisy says, “You have my zebra?”
“I’m still stuck in traffic”, Mike says via the Jeep, “and it’s not YOUR zebra. It’s on LOAN.”
“Whatever”, Daisy says.
“I’m bringing you some throw pillows too. You can keep those.” says Mike, “or throw ’em.”
I’m feeling the need for a zebra. And some throw pillows. Maybe even dry cleaning. I wonder how I can get a Mike. My life would be seriously improved by a guy who would drop off a zebra and some throw pillows while I visited my horse.
At some point while Daisy is in the dry cleaners, my throat starts to close up and I realize I’m having an allergic reaction. Daisy comes back with garment bags, and I ask her if I could be allergic to this plastic thingie on the dash. She snatches it and throws it out the window. Ta Da. Problem solved. I start breathing again. Daisy deals. I love Daisy.
I probably would have talked about it until I croaked.
We catch up on all the important stuff, like the backstory of Zebra rights (I don’t bother to ask if the zebra is a sculpture, photo, painting, or live zebra that will be clopping around Daisy’s kitchen when we return, rummaging in the vegetable drawer in the fridge.) Work, Murphy, Barbie, life, Hudson.
I pay zero attention to the route. Rolling hills. Grape vines. Wineries. I have a vague idea where we’re going. It’s not all that far from this incredible bakery on the square in Healdsburg? Which I’m certain I could find blindfolded in a hurricane. Or if Daisy stopped the car now and shoved me out.
We wind down the road through vineyards to the barn. Here and there paddocks interrupt the acres of wine grapes, the paddocks gradually taking over. Very South-of-France-ish. Olive trees. Is that lavender?
I see Murphy on a little hill. Oh thank God. Standard horse ID test: I can still pick him out of a crowd from a moving car. If you can pick ’em out in a drive by, you are definitely still their Auntie. I’m flooded with relief. I missed him.
Oh. So THAT’S how this gate opens…
This is our size-check photo. Remember, he’s two. And Daisy 5’11”.
You can see the adult horse peeking out.
My ears are forward because my mom is throwing grass in the air. GRASS. What is wrong with her?
That vine is almost in reach…one more sneaky step…
We’re horse people, we have to see both sides:
This is stupid. Take the picture.
He’s still the same little friendly foal who wants to see the camera lens. Give or take 1,000 pounds.
After not quite enough time annoying Murphy by draping my body over his, smooching his muzzle, and asking a thousand times if he remembers Auntie Jane (face it, it’s never going to be enough time, right?) we have to pack up and go home. Oh well. I’m looking forward to meeting the loaner zebra.
Daisy says, “Hey, wanna stop for a salad at The Crazy Chicken?”
Unfortunately this activates the rarely used science center in my brain. Which, once it gets going, won’t stop until it feels it has exhaused all analytical conclusions: Is there such a thing as a sane chicken? Would someone ever name a restaurant, in which one eats chicken, “The Sane Chicken”? How about “The Well-Adjusted Chicken”? “The Perfectly Normal Chicken”?
I imagine ordering a chicken salad in front of my friend the psychotherapist. “It’s okay! This chicken is certified wacko.”
“Sounds great!”, I say, hoping Daisy doesn’t notice the long pause.
I think we can easily see how Road Trips with any combo of Daisy, Bella, and Jane turn into wormholes in the space/time continuum, rushing us past Elmer Fudd, Bugs Bunny, Buster Posey, and The Goat Mafia, only to drop us off at…The Perfectly Normal Chicken.
Excellent salad. Yummy insane chicken.
I meet the Zebra:
Definitely worth four years of Daisy teasing a good friend for hanging rights. Even as a loaner.
I’m about to start bugging Daisy to loan me the loaner Zebra. The good news? This could become very “Who’s on first…?” if someone else starts bugging me to loan them the loaner zebra. Eventually everyone except Daisy will forget where it originally came from, and she can claim it back. Forever.
Daisy? Thank my logic center. (It likes cake.)
Did you know there’s a bakery really close to your new barn…?