Then I noticed that Pistol was wearing her halter, and Brett was holding the lead line. Odd. I rolled down my window and Brett called over, "She's stuck and I need help."
I parked the car, walked quickly (but carefully) over the frozen porch, in the back door, dropped my computer bag, trotted up the stairs, and started to change into jeans. I glanced out the window, and saw Pistol walking to the hay feeder, with Brett following and carrying the halter. I slid our bedroom window open and called down to him,
"You got her out?"
"Yes. It wasn't easy."
I switched gears, put on my sweats, and got to work on dinner. I took a nice bottle of wine from the cellar (the closet under the stairs). It was open when Brett stomped into the house.
Steak au poivre, roasted potatoes and a bottle of chateneauf de pape. His mood improved.
He said that Pistol was climbing around in the tree limbs, as she often does, and sunk in the mud. Brett found her, up to her knees in mud, and unable to back out because she was also straddling a good sized limb. Brett somehow found the strength to lift and move the limb out of the way. Pistol leaned back onto her haunches and took a few steps backwards. She was able to release her front legs.
Brett wondered if he should put yellow caution tape around the tree. We agreed it wouldn't stop her. And I said, "Pistol is a smart horse. She won't do that again."
|Most of the mud was gone this morning, but you can see some of it still clinging to her legs.|
I was wrong. She did it again this evening. We are going to a crab feed tonight -- I may have to drive so Brett can drink more wine.