When the Farrier Comes

It just isn’t as easy to stand on three legs as it used to be. “The mind is willing, but the body has other ideas”: isn’t that how the saying goes?

It always catches me a little by surprise, because I still think of myself as a finely tuned athlete ready to leap tall jumps in a single bound and run like the wind. But every 5 weeks, reality hits home when the farrier comes to trim my feet.

As feet go, mine are pretty tough and I don’t have to have steel shoes anymore. After all, I mostly just nap anyway, and I certainly don’t need shoes to frolic in the pasture with my pal Oreo.

Oreo doesn’t have shoes either. He has the biggest feet I have ever seen!! (Let’s keep that between us because he is a fine-looking fellow and I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He can’t help it if he is one of those warmbloods.) Where was I, oh yeah, even though I don’t need shoes, my feet are still fragile—I am a finely bred thoroughbred you know—and if they aren’t trimmed regularly, I get chips and cracks and it is just a mess.

So, every 5 weeks, like clockwork, the farrier comes. This resort has a really fine farrier, Meghan is her name. She is extremely patient with me and gives me time to bend my old stiff joints. She doesn’t get mad if I lose my balance and have to pull my foot away. She has the patience of a saint because sometimes it takes me a few minutes to get comfortable.

When she trims my back feet, she puts a nice cushy, wide boot on the opposite foot to help me feel more comfortable. At first, I wasn’t so sure about that boot, but wow, it really makes a difference. I get lots of treats when the farrier comes, which always helps. I never mind being the center of attention.

I had my mom take some pictures of me and Meghan for my scrapbook. I like this one the best! I am such a clown sometimes.

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