Liquid snow. Some call it liquid sunshine. Some call it an Oregon Mist. Most call it rain, and it’s been coming down non-stop for days creating an oozing sludge upon the ground which is at times more difficult to walk across than the ice. At least if you slip on ice you don’t run the risk of being consumed alive by the earth.
This same earth from which springs forth life in the form of good foods and sweet smelling roses, also comes muck and mire that will creep slowly upward as you walk across it, and if you stay out too long you’ll find you’re up to your ears in a mud so thick, you’ll wonder if you’re suffering from some form or cruel spa treatment. And it’s everywhere…
It’s on my muck boots (which I’m eternally grateful for…not the mud, but that the mud is on the boots and not inside on my socks or squishing through my toes.)
It’s on City Boy’s boots.
It’s on my Ariat boots.
It’s in my driveway.
It’s mucking up the gate into my paddock.
The rains are so bad that my farrier has called and begged to postpone her visit to trim Jet’s feet. Sure, she tried to tell me it’s on account of her car accident and her body is just too stiff and sore, but I know she’s afraid of sinking through to the core of the earth if she sets foot inside my paddock.
The horses, those supposedly wild and woolly, tougher than nails mustangs are refusing to leave their stalls, not wanting to risk getting their feet muddy. Not even my dogs are willing to venture out with me at chore time (the stinking little porch poodles), claiming they may shrink and be mistaken for those silly little pocket sized designer dogs.
I could really do with some dry weather here. Especially since…are you ready for this? I was accepted into the Mustang Makeover! That’s right, I’m one of the 30 lucky ducks who gets to drive to California next month, pick up a wild horse, train it in 3 months and return to Sacramento in June. And if the mud doesn’t go away, the horse may be sucked right out of sight, never to be seen again…