palace of winds

I dream of him constantly. I wake up with a vague sense of it, ghosts of mundane conversations about saddle pads, lunging, picking up hooves.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about his hooves, actually. They were terribly overgrown when I got him, going all flat and beginning to crack. The farrier was out Monday, and they’re about half the size now. I can’t get over how beautiful they are. They look so strong and tidy. The farrier put a little roll on them — I think they call it a mustang roll? — and it’s exquisite. Honestly, though, I kind of can’t wait until I don’t have to worry about his feet so much. He’s still learning to pick them up politely, and adding in the two straight weeks of rain we’ve had — that is, a solid coat of mud clear to his hocks, and his general dislike of having his legs hosed off, and the daily required oiling to prevent further cracks, six hours later I end up rather muddy and wet. Such a production.

He’s so good, though. Astonishingly good. Everything takes twice as long because he’s still learning the basics, but it means I get to spend twice as long with him. Every minute is worth it. I muse a little on the big goals — eventing, that first gallop over a real cross-country course, giving foxhunting a whirl, even just cantering under saddle — but mostly I’m dreaming small. Consistently standing still for grooming. Big round lunge circles. Trotting on cue. The big stuff’s for one day, and lately I’m all about today. Whiskery horsey kisses and that hint of gloss coming into his coat (which, admittedly, is mostly my imagination; but this spring, boy, hold onto your socks — he’s going to be one gorgeous boy).