|Sherwood on Tracker, Not Charlie the Wonder Horse|
Possibly he was colicky (the horse, not Sherwood). He wasn’t.
Possibly he was going lame. He wasn’t.
Probably Charlie the Horse was tired and didn’t want to walk another step. It is quite likely that Charlie the Horse is smart, lazy, and thinking ahead.
Sherwood brought him home early from the fund raiser, whereupon he (the horse, not Sherwood) ran out to his buddy (Tracker), frolicked, whinnied, and got back to the serious business of eating his weight in salad.
Note to self: Try to outsmart the horse in 2017.
I was supposed to be out riding with Sherwood and Charlie the Wonder Horse, but having contracted my traditional New Year’s viral snot head, I felt lousy and stayed home. At 3pm, when Sherwood’s horse was giving up his will to walk, I smelled smoke. I was already in bed and wrapped in a bathrobe, sans brassiere or eyebrows.
I leaped to my feet, sniffing like a bloodhound. Smoke, burning rubber, and the odor of my own panic mixed about my head like gnats looking for a sweaty cowboy. Something was on fire. I checked outside to see if my neighbor was burning crazy crap. Nope.
I screamed for my cell phone. It did not answer. I got lightheaded. I raced to find my phone. It was next to the bed, in its spot, charging—the sneaky bastard. Dialing 911 and struggling into my bra, I breathlessly reported a possible house fire.
The ladder truck, fire chief, ambulance, and a cop roared into the yard ten minutes later. Facts: the garbage disposal tried to burn my house down; it was too hot to touch; there was a short in the wall switch; the fire fighters checked for heat signatures in the wall and turned off the power; they insisted I get an electrician.
The boss fireman said, “Lady, this is exactly the kind of thing that burns down houses.”
All the firemen were cute. I still had no eyebrows.
Note to self: Start the kitchen remodel even if I have to take a sledge hammer to the garbage disposal myself.
Two Sundays before these incidents, Sherwood tried to cut off the end of his thumb with a pocketknife, while trying to hack his way into a cinnamon candy cane. But that’s a story for another day—same year—but another day.
Ahhhhh . . . 2017 . . . I’m worried already.
Linda (Sniffle Gal) Zern