After we returned from vacation yesterday, Bridget was standing hanging her head over the fence, plainly wishing for some diversion.
So I went in to the pasture, put on her halter and leadrope, and approached the gate. George, of course, approached the gate too. Over a week has gone by, after all, since he last came out of the field. However, it's high time I started taking Bridget out for regular solo expeditions, and I was determined. I promised George that Bridget was only going out for exercise and training purposes, and that there would be No Grazing Allowed.
George still stood there. As I stood beside him, pulling his ears, and prattling on about how I really wished he would move out of my way, visions of Carolyn Resnick and Hempfling brandishing long sticks came into view - long sticks with which they would skillfully express their point of view as to the desired location of the likes of George. My eyes cast about in a desultory fashion, looking at various objects on the ground, as I wondered whether I could use said objects to similar effect.
But I just stood there, prattling and waiting, Bridget hiding behind me.
Then George took himself out of the way so perfectly and beautifully that Bridget and I were able to exit without the least rush, and he stayed in position long enough for me to take this photo.
|You can see the edge of the still-open gate at the bottom left.|
And I told him that no matter what kind of a George he had been up until this moment, he was hereinafter to be known as the namesake of St. George, he of damsel-rescuing, dragon-slaying fame.
Bridget and I had a very nice walk - and although of course she snatched the odd mouthful, there was no actual grazing, in faithfulness to my promise to George. When we returned, George let us back in.
I am grateful that although I am pretty clueless when it comes to demanding what I want, my kind friend is nevertheless generous enough to offer what I ask as a gift freely given.