|Flash: Are you sure you don't have cookies?|
A few minutes after turning the girls loose, we notice Lucy on high alert. She was staring up towards the dressage court (where there was nothing unusual), then snorting and trotting in her best demonstration of impulsion and elevation. (seriously gorgeous to watch). She wasn't relaxed but she had a lovely arch in her neck as she floated across the pasture; and back again; and away again; and back again. I looked at Brett. We shook our heads and walked to the house.
In the late afternoon I went into the girls pasture with the muck cart and rake. As I scooped up manure, I could see Pistol standing under the trees at the far end of the pasture. Lucy was on the near side of the fallen tree and she stayed there as I made my way along the fence line. She didn't come over to me for attention but stood by the lower fence watching for Brett and the hay cart.
When I got over to Pistol, she seemed a little lonely. I went over to her and started rubbing all the mud off of her face.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lucy turn from the fence and give us a hard stare. Then she was cantering over to us, bucking as she came. She chased Pistol off and then gave me a look -- the kind I used to get from my mother when I was in trouble. I heard Lucy loud and clear, Don't you EVER touch another horse. Do you hear me? I am your horse. You give me attention and nobody else.
I apologized and tried to scratch her withers. She gave me a cold look and walked off.
I think she's in heat. Talk about PMS. And temper tantrums. And all those awful stereotypes about mares.