The three horses crossed cautiously, finding that their weight broke the ice and gave them a foothold. Not so Chloe. Her dainty figure wasn't hefty enough to fracture the glassy surface. She walked back and forth, looking for a way over, but gave up.
I called her over to the fence, thinking she could make her way across at that spot, as there was a line of crusty snow running along the fence which looked as if it might provide better footing.
Chloe pawed a little, but declined to cross. Ok, Chloe, I'm coming in.
She stayed put, and I climbed over the gate to join her where she was standing. I stamped on the ice and managed to smash a few footholds (in my new shoes, mind you). But Chloe chose that moment to follow the path I'd originally recommended - picking her way along the line of snow at the base of the fence.
Not there yet. The George Troll is standing between Chloe and the free pile of hay.
Not enough room to safely pass between George and the fence. And the frozen river is to his right. Chloe went over to inspect the ice to see if maybe she could circumnavigate on that side. Nope. So she parked herself where she was and let it be known how convenient it would be for some hay to be served up in that very spot.
|Right here will do nicely, thank you.|
It occurs to me that there are those who might find such descriptions about as thrilling as listening to an account of paint drying. Silly people.