Goodmorning, it's raining.
C'est la vie? Well only in Washington.
The muscles in my shoulders tingled and burned as I tossed the muck from Gatsby's round pen. I stopped to look at him, he stood in his stall looking at me. I swear if he could smile he would. His ears were pricked so far forward it's a wonder they didn't touch, his thick floppy forelock drooped over his eyes, but didn't block the sparkle in them. His lips curled as a sweet little noise like a sigh escaped them.
"Gatsman, come here buddy, *CluckCluckCluck*"
Gatsby flipped his head as he trotted over to me. He pressed his shoulder to my hip and sighed happily. I leaned my head over his neck and breathed. Any horse person, or anyone whose ever been near a horse knows that they have this smell. Before I started riding I would linger in the horse barn, the smell of fresh shavings and clean horses was the best thing to my dazzled mind. As I inhaled Gatsby, I closed my eyes, the sun had just begun to peek its way around the clouds. Gatsby smelled good, like sun-baked grass, and something warm and homey, sort of like a flannel stolen from Dads closet or a towel out of the cupboard. I opened my eyes and found him doing the same as me. His muzzle pressed to my leg, snuffling at my Wranglers. I want so badly to know what he's thinking. My best guess as to what he was thinking is,
" Mmm hay, and horse, the dark brown one. For a hairless two legger she doesn't smell that bad. She so soft and warm too. Ahh."