Footprints

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That morning, I had done a heavy squat workout and my legs were pretty well shot.

Between work and the weather I hadn't been able to visit for a couple of days. The herd was in the barn.  He was eager to stretch his legs. We went out to find something green to nibble.

Got to the foot of our favorite hill, and he insisted we go up that way.

“No way,” I said. “My legs are trashed.”

“C'mon Lion, don't be a pussy.”

“Forget it, Pal. I am NOT going up that fucking hill.”

Yeah, we went up the fucking hill.

“Hey, wait for me,” I said.

“You’re dawdling,” he told me, breaking into his prancer-dancer routine in honor of yuletide.

“Give me a break, will you?” I said. “After all the times I’ve had to DRAG your ass up this hill, you could slow down a little for me this once.”

“Tempus fugit,” he replied.

So. Up that damn hill.

It’s about a quarter mile. Steep enough that when you drive it, you wonder if your vehicle is going to flip over on its back, like a helpless steel turtle.

Faster than a walk.

Slower than a trot.

I was breathing hard.

He tossed his mane and snorted, just to rub it in.

Up the hill and around the bend to where his old girlfriend, Nikki was waiting for him. As soon as we approached, she came out of her run-in shed.

Cue the violins.

They called to each other.

He dragged me across the lawn so he could touch noses with her.

“Careful, Casanova,” I said, “that fence is hot.”

They nuzzled.

She squealed.

He nickered.

And then we headed back.

With Nikki still watching him longingly from afar across the pasture, we starting down the hill, and he began to favor that recurrently troublesome left front leg.

"Don't even ask,” I said. “I'm not going to carry you.”

He chuckled.

I guess she was worth it.

sj

photo by Mouse