Broken person

I have a broken person here at Bent Barrow Farm. I've only caught glimpses of her—first, being carried from the truck to the house after an emergency call from her elementary school—then, a bit later, being carried from the house to the truck and whisked away. She was brought back, five hours later, smelling of antiseptics and swaddled from foot to thigh in a hard cast.

"A broken leg?!!?", I asked.

"Yes, Fenway, but don't worry," FarmWife said. "They don't shoot people for that."

She's going to be OK after six weeks in a cast, I hear. There is a "no muleback riding" rule in place, which I find terribly silly! I'm safer, stronger, and less challenging to use than those darned crutches. She probably never would have gotten broken in the first place if only she had been riding upon me, Fenway Bartholomule, instead of racing down a hill on her own two feet.

I'll show you a picture of her as soon as she emerges from the house again.

Ears,
FenBar