What next?

The Monday morning conversation between me and the Short One went something like this:

SO: How are you this morning, Taco?

Me: I am fine. My foot feels much better, see how fast I can walk on it now?

SO: Yay, look at you go! Are you hungry? It is time for breakfast.

Me: I’m starving. I really need more hay.

SO: You have hay. Look, it’s all over your stall.

ME: That is too stemmy, I don’t like it. I need new hay. Give that hay to Ginger, she will eat anything.

SO: (LOL) That is very true. OH MY GOD, TACO!!!

Me: What? What’s going on? What did I do? What happened?

SO: Your hock is the size of a personal watermelon! What did you do?

ME: What did I DO? I didn’t do anything. It doesn’t hurt. It might be a little stiff, but see, I’m walking on it just fine. Don’t worry about it. Can I have my breakfast now?

SO: Geeze, is it hot? Does it hurt?

ME: Just relax. I am fine. Where is my breakfast?

SO: Let me take your temperature and text your mother. Holy cow, that is big!

ME: Can it wait until after breakfast? I am starving, you know!

Oreo, yelling from the other stall: What’s the holdup with breakfast? I’m hungry.

Biggin: Me too. Hurry up!

SO: Your temperature is normal, but your hock is not! Taco, Taco, TACO!

ME: No worries, I’m fine. I can walk, I can eat, and that’s all that counts. Where is my breakfast?

And so it went. We got our breakfast (finally) and after I finished eating, I was hauled out of my stall and put on the crossties for further examination. Whatever I had done to cause this inflammation was rather alarming. Calls were made to my mother, who is out of town. Photos were sent. The vet was called (Mom has her on speed dial).

A few hours later, there I was, all wrapped up with a leg sweat and some stack bandages. I had to eat that unappetizing Banamine paste and then, worse yet, SMZ/TMP, yuck! At least the Short One mixes it with applesauce, so I didn’t spit all of it out.

Sometimes I feel like these humans just overreact. It was just a little cellulitis; how bad can it get?