Two mares in heat. Even Chloe prancing and galloping. George going off into corners to stomp the ground and kick the air. Everyone madly charging around the field, squealing and bucking.
Having been out all day, I walk into this maelstrom all unawares and park myself in a corner of the field with a grooming box and halter, waiting to see who'll come up.
George comes over and enjoys some brushing. Then I ask him if he'd like to put the halter on, and he agrees.
To George, a glance of the eye is like a taser shock, and so I figure I'm going to work with him for a while without actually touching him, although communicating through the leadrope is ok.
We get a little back relaxation, but George is touchy. I back off every time he looks like he might be getting cross. So he doesn't get cross, although he expresses his anxiety by grabbing my sleeve and chomping the rope.
When I let him go, he walks away but returns shortly, driving Bridget in front of him. They both stick around for a minute, and then the wild rumpus begins.
I enjoy watching them caper and reflect that for a gelding over-endowed with testosterone, in a field with two mares in heat, George was really quite polite when I was working with him.