A Modest Ride

Dear Readers,

I had hoped to offer you stunning photos of rugged places, daring tales of physical triumph, and swashbucking adventures retold in colorful detail after my Sunday ride with FarmWife. Instead, I will tell you a secret:

I am physically imperfect.

Not by much—I am an Adonis, beautiful in my masculine strength and chiseled beauty—but by just enough to prove that I am of this Earth.

We took it easy on Sunday, because I had a touch of swelling in my off hock. By a touch, I mean an amount that would never have been visible to any but the most attentive of humans—a swelling of about the same size as the pile of sugar that FarmWife has in her morning coffee.

FarmWife calls it thoroughpin. I'm sound on it, it comes and goes, it never pains me and it's never tender to the touch nor upon flexion. Just a soft little pouch of malleable imperfection that sometimes gives cause for rest.

We walked down yonder road, hoping that my hock would go down with light exercise. It didn't, so we refrained from mulish exertion. We continued with "light work," FarmWife dismounting that we might practice ground driving and enjoy a lower-impact outing.

We were accompanied by a grinning and high-tech hound dog for most of our walk. He joined us early-on in the logging tract and stayed at our side for some time before wandering away. He was tricked-out with several radio collars and three forms of ID, and had a most pleasant demeanor. He offered, I must say, the finest canine companionship I have enjoyed these many months. The sort of trail dog that sticks with you without being under foot, except for the fact that he must not have stuck with his hunting master, being as he was at the side of a stranger mule and human. Who knows at what stage of which hunt he was mislaid, but there was a happy ending.

FarmWife memorized the phone number on the lonesome hound before he parted from our company, and then ground-drove me home, causing neighbors to marvel as she passed in her imaginary carriage. (They might have granted her her made-up vehicle if they new the prices of real ones!). Upon arriving at Bent Barrow Farm, she called the dog owner. He reported, happily, that his dog had turned up at a residence and was secure pending pickup.

I will let you know how our next adventure goes. Until then, I remain—

your friend,
Fenway