I apologize for the last post. I left it undone and up on the screen. My ever so impatient Mother clicked "post". Oy Vey.

I ran the razor blade over the taunt plastic, watching the cedar shavings expand and spill out of the slit. I flipped the bale of shavings over, dumping it in to Gatsby's stall. I heard his snort of protest from the other side of the pen. I shoved my hair back out of my eyes as I turned to him.
"Hey Gatsby-Bratsby, get over here look what I got you!"
Another loud snort. I smiled at his expression.

Later in the day my Dad and I took Gatsby out. He flew to the end of the line, snapping himself around. His eye stared at us, proud and offended. We walked him in the grass letting him graze.

I watched him, his every little move, trying to paint a picture of his life before this, his home. His herd, I'd imagine is every bit as beautiful as him. All in assorted browns, reds, greys. All with the same almost liquid movement. These horses in my head run like thunder through the dust and sand of the Paisley Valley. It made me almost sad that everything Gatsby had once know, would be something he would never know again.

"It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment." The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald; Chp. 6

During his adventures outside the corral, Gatsby had gone into enclosed stall, and into an unfenced pasture. He's faced barking neighborhood dogs and evil chickens. He hardly batted an eye.

Today I went to him in the afternoon. The sun was hot and lazy, allowing no wind to blow. Gatsby was curled up in the fluffy cedar shavings. I sat on the bench by his stall and watched him wallow with innocent eyes. I can't give you words my readers, for what it was like for me. Watching him stretch and groan, sighing in the luxury of a bedded stall. It made me laugh but at the same time it put him in perspective for me. And that is what I can't explain, I understand him and his little arrogant ways, I get it. I just can't tell you why or how he still listens through all that ego.

I poked Gatsby in the ribs with my forefinger.

"Hey lazy bones it's time to do some work."

He sighed and rolled his eyes at me before hopping up to his feet. I slipped him into his halter and a lead. Walking him around the pen, I thought of Cinco, my show horse, and how before each workout he gets stretched. I stopped Gatsby, I slowly pressed my back to his flank, pulling the lead rope til he bent to me. I watched him, the long lean muscles on his back tightened, the veins under his neck and down his chest stood pumping his gamey blood. I watched them serge with his heart beat. Rise, one two, rise, one two. On the fifth rise Gatsby bent farther toward me, giving to the pressure, I released his head. Repeating on both sides.

Everyday when I muck his pen, Gatsby harasses me relentlessly. Following me, standing in the way, and even stealing the pick. He's a real pest. So today I decided it was time for the Great Bratsby to learn to stand tied. I looped his lead around the top rung, just tight enough that if he tried to wander it would apply some pressure, but if he pulled hard, he'd be freed. I'm happy to report I cleaned his paddock in record time :) He stood with his head pressed to the fence pouting the whole time. He got his revenge while I was filling his water.

I squatted by the trough holding the hose in it, he mosied over and began to drink. I was so captivated by his sweet coco powder colored eyes that I didn't see the hoof. Gatsby without warning shoved both front hooves into the trough, pawing and sloshing. Completely soaking him and I both.

"Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small, reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before." The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald Chp. 7