Wringing my hooves

Wringing my hooves, literally, is rather difficult—firstly, there is the musculoskeletal strength that a prolonged levade requires. I am simply not in the physical condition to support my weight on my hind limbs for any length of time. Secondly, there is the question of joint mobility. Try as I might, I cannot bend inward at the knee in the fashion of you humans with your multi-directional elbows. My hooves can be rubbed together, yes, in the fashion of an interfering trotter or a conformationally defective sport horse in desperate need of a pair of bell boots, but with my sturdy, wide stance and my moderate tendency to toe out, even this requires more than a normal degree of effort.

OK, then, we'll say this—I am figuratively wringing my hooves over the tragic affairs in our international community. I cannot think about the relative merits of chewing my delectable hay with my left molars or my right, or the questionable usefulness of my rather expensive closed-cell foam saddle pad, or the trials and tribulations of dragging a tire and a PVC travois down Meredith Lane—not when there are untold thousands suffering, mourning, and worrying about the future. In northern Africa and the middle east, in Haiti, on the Ivory Coast, and now in Japan, there are bigger things to worry about.

I am a mule of optimism, cheer, and merriment, though. I will not lose sight of my joy, nor will I lose sight of my ability to infect FarmWife with it. She has been sick, and we have not ridden lately. As she improves, though, she's showing signs of needing a relaxing outing. I can help with that.

I cannot fix corrupt governments, tectonic shifting, or broken nuclear reactors, but I can fix FarmWife. I will take her riding on Tuesday night, and she will shrug off her worries and her persistent cough. She won't stop worrying about friends in Japan, but she will feel better. I promise.

FenBar