The gods — I mean dogs — are restless if the sun’s up and I’m not. They mooch around, sighing and laying their big heads on the side of the bed. Sleep fog rolls back to reveal the urgent truth: Forest is boxed for an injury. Not fair to leave him standing in his night soil. He wants a bucket and he really wants to be held out to grass.
Daniel, yarded overnight to keep Forest company, will be pacing in the corner of the yard we call The Office. He’ll not stop until his breakfast is delivered.
OK. I’m up. Tea. Dog’s breakfast. Sometimes the rain gear goes on over the pyjamas and out I go. It’s an unspoken contract shared by horse folk the world over. First we feed and muck out. Then we attend to our own affairs.