Saturday, and so the horses' breakfast is late.
George is standing around, looking Eeyore-ish and muttering to himself. Bridget meets me at the gate when I go to fetch out last night's dinner dishes. She says, "Breakfast can wait! First I want to play the Glove Game, and the Zipper Game, and the Leg Game!" Then she discovers that the drawstring of my anorak hood is elastic, and she can pull it and let it go poing.
George comes over; she leaves. George pulls each of my gloves off and then stands there looking put-upon. I gather the feed dishes, throw them over the fence, and on my way out, Bridget meets me by the gate to play some more. Once more she leaves when George looms. George says, "All right, I want to do the glove thing once more too, and then for heaven's sakes, woman, are you going to feed me or not?"
So I feed them.
p.s. It was 11F (- 12C) this morning, but there was no wind, it was dry, and I put on so much long underwear and so many layers that I was actually too hot outside.
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