Wait…what? I looked up from my poop pile and wheelbarrow to find a middle aged lady standing next to her parked car in my driveway.
Odd. My driveway is 1/4 mile long, has an extremely wonky angled entrance and a cattle guard and then winds down past the pasture to the house. Not very inviting and definitely out of the way.
“Can I help you?” I was a bit incredulous. I mean, why was she standing in my drive?
“Who owns that horse behind you?” Not friendly. Very accusatory and well, to be frank, quite bitchy.
“Rhino? My landlady who lives next door.” I was puzzled. Why be nasty in your delivery of such a question?
“He is too thin. Something needs to be done. I never see you outside and I told myself next time someone was out I was going to find out what was going on over here.”
Um…you don’t see me outside because…oh..wait…that is none of your business. Nothing is “going on over here” either. She made it sound like I was running some sort of horse scam or something.
“He isn’t too thin. In fact he is in better shape than our two horses are at the moment”
“Your two are in great condition. Is he old? I saw his teeth. He doesn’t look old.”
In fact my two horses are fatAnd Rhino is in his mid 20s. And she is a horse teeth expert now?
“He is in his mid 20s. He isn’t thin. He gets two grain meals a day plus hay. He has clean water at all times and 8 acres to roam with a shelter out of the wind. He has a good horse life. Leave him be”
Not appeased by my answer she attempted to continue her interrogation when Einstein finally took notice and came wriggling over. Einstein is a jumper. It’s his last remaining bad behavior and we try hard to curb it.
“Your dog is jumping all over me!”
I just stood there and blinked at her. If you weren’t on my property where you weren’t invited, then you wouldn’t be getting jumped on by my overly exuberant dog.
“Well, he is obviously lonely. He hangs out near your two all day. You need to let him in your pasture. Right away.”
“He is a stallion. I own a mare”
She just stared at me. And repeated her demand that I allow him in my pasture. At this point my patience and good mood were rapidly disappearing and I did what I rarely do: I dropped the vet bomb.
“My husbands a vet and is right over there. Ask him his professional opinion.”
Thankfully Dusty was walking over our way and she repeated her inquest on the state of the horse and his inability to be friends with our horses. He repeated much of what I already said and, finally realizing she wasn’t going to be able to make some big scene, she finally got in her car.
She then proceeded to use the hay field to turn her car around without asking if it was ok to drive through the well cared for grass. I won’t be polite the next time I see her and I am sure there will be a next time. There always is. The middle of nowhere is calling my name.