It’s technically Sunday, but I’m going to call it Saturday so that this post isn’t late :)

Well, it’s finally happened. Chic is at a body score of about 3.5, meaning she is at an almost acceptable weight. In about a week, I’d say she’ll be perfect. Sadly, I haven’t had much time to do anything other than barn chores for the past week, although I did shave a heart into Chic’s butt to start desensitizing her to clippers. She HATES them. But the heart is adorable.

I think I rode her once this week, maybe twice. Definitely at least six times in December, which was my goal. She’s starting to get feisty with me. And is learning that, try as she may, we WILL go into the arena.

Feed is expensive. $25 for 50lbs of sweet feed. It’s worth it, but still. Yikes. I’ve bought five bags so far, of the sweet feed and the beet pulp. A girth, a bridle, a barrel, a scoop, strongid wormer 10lbs, and eventually a saddle repair for a broken billet strap. This is more expensive than I thought. And gee, it isn’t even my dough. Too bad I don’t have time for a job. :/ I won’t until Chic is sold. *sigh* She is worth the trouble.

Her canter is weird. Two of her legs land at the same time with each stride. I’ll try to figure out how to better describe it later. That’s probably why it’s such a workout to sit.

As far as trails go, I’m going to need a lot of vapo-rub. In a nutshell, this is the revenge of the pigs, and we are not permitted access to the trails until both of my mounts can face the wretched horror that is pre-cooked bacon. Vapo-rub is my lord and savior. Otherwise, Winchester would still freak out every time something moves. Or looks like it might move. Vapo-rub basically keeps the horses from smelling the pigs, which freaks them out more than the sight of one, for some reason. I would know. I blindfolded Winchester, and he decided to sacrifice himself to his own terror by trying to run in circles away from the scent of Satan, whilst dragging behind him a swearing, sweating creature, tethered by a string attached to his face. God help me if Vapo-rub fails. So far, it hasn’t, but I don’t trust either Winchester or Chic to not develop a strange condition where they imagine the scent of the pig, triggered by the sight of such, and instead of inhaling the fragrance of the room of an asthmatic with a bad cold, they are hit with a wall of stench that can only mean one thing: PIG.

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