It's grey again today, and I feel like my plate is full.
I went out to feed early this morning, I peeked around the corner of the barn to see what Gatsby was up to. He stood in the farthest corner of the round pen on the pasture side sleeping. Even when he isn't moving he seems elegant.

Gatsby is from a herd in Paisley Valley of Oregon, His mother was from a nearby herd in Palomino Butte. The horses from Palomino Butte and Paisley Valley have been linked to some gaited horses, according to the information I was given. This makes sense when I watch Gatsby. He has a high hip, strong flat knees, and a very flashy forward movement. I wish I could see his herd, I wonder if they are all as graceful as him.

I fed the big horses in the barn and carried Gatsby's hay out to his pen. As I turned the corner he was already standing at the front of the pen, wide awake and talking. Typical boy, I thought, he already knows where the food is. I fed him and left him alone to eat for a while.

I came back out later to mess with him. To my great annoyance and his great amusement he had discovered mud. He continued to cover himself in it. I shook my head and grabbed a brush. Gatsby stood still and let me knock all the dirt off of him. I worked up to his face, and as I rubbed the bristles over his nose he snatched the brush from me. With the most joy I've seen out of him since he came home he flung my brush around.
"Gatsby you little brat! Give it back!"
He seem all to pleased with my annoyed tone and continued to dangle the brush out of my reach. I finally got it back, with much bribery. I rubbed his legs down. I got to the bottom and with out thinking applied pressure like I would with my big horses. He lifted his foot slowly. All the sudden is was like some one set my body in a tub with a blow dryer. I was so excited! I set it down and pet him. I repeated this about ten times while I was working with him, all four feet.

I decided to see how much of yesterdays lesson in giving to pressure he remembered. I snagged the dirty drag line off the ground, and gave a gentle steady pull.

"Gatsby, walk on. *Click, click,click*"

He moved forward with no hesitation, I relaxed the pressure but kept moving, and he followed. At the other side of the pen I slowed and turned to him.

"Whoa."

He stopped.

It was the first time he had stopped for me. And the first time he had taken more than four steps for pressure. He clearly remembered what he learned yesterday. But let's see just how much he really remembered. I grabbed his new halter and a regular lead rope. I wrestled the worn, stubborn olive green and mud colored halter off of him. And ever so slowly slipped his new indigo blue halter on. It had no lead on it yet. I turned away to set the old halter and drag rope down, as I moved away. Gatsby moved with me. I smiled. He lets me catch him now even with out the drag rope.

My mom suggested I worm him today as well. We adjusted the wormer paste for his weight and decided to use his mouthiness to my advantage. I walked over to him and offered him the tube. He sniffed and then pulled it in to his mouth. Before he knew what hit him I squished  the gel into his mouth. Gatsby was offended to say the least. He flipped his lip up, snorted, shook his head. I thought it was funny, he did not. He even tasted some dirt in an effort to get the taste out of his mouth. I felt bad so I went to the pasture next door. The grass is up to my hip and lush. I can't wait for the day when I can take Gatsby for walks through it. I cut a bundle of grass and brought it back to him. Gatsby munched contently on this. I grabbed my  fork and climb in his pen to clean it.

As I scooped and sang along to the radio, Gatsby seized the opportunity for payback for the wormer. He came snuffling over to me and bit the fork. I shooed him and scooched away he followed. A chore that should have taken only three minutes took closer to ten, because his "help".

"I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. " The Great Gatsby  By F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ch. 7

I'll write soon,

Raime