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The Gloves are Off

Sage stood miserably in the corner of his stall and didn’t react as I approached him. The sour barn manager held onto his lead rope loosely and looked at me in disgust. This was highly irregular. Her reaction was fairly normal, but my mere presence was usually enough to send Sage into orbit. He did not care for shots, dewormers or having his teeth checked or floated, and he had me firmly pegged as the source of such indignities. I could sweet talk him, attempt to scratch his neck or rub his face, but it gained me nothing except a good view of the bottom of his feet, his gnashing yellow teeth and the whites of his eyes. I was the devil and that was that, as far as Sage was concerned.

I auscultated Sage’s chest, marveling that his feet remained planted on the ground. In fact, he did nothing at all as I worked my way around him, but I was fairly certain the barn manager pinned her ears and shook her head threateningly as I ducked past her, and I resisted the urge to step firmly on her foot.

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Horse Illustrated Magazine
September 2019

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