We are in the dim and drear dying days of February, which, like Lord Byron, is "nasty, brutish and short". The sun is finally shaking off some of it's torpor and at least now trying to make an occasional appearance. Molly and I must amuse ourselves as best we can - in her case, her need to launder me remains firmly entrenched.
This week we rediscovered the rather delightful sunning spot in the front paddock that is protected by a large wall of cedar. It has been inaccessible for months owing to drifts of snow and sheets of ice. Last week's thaw demolished most of that. Equally delightful is the collection of nicely dried wood rails that make up the paddock fence. We settled in for the afternoon, Molly gnawing on the top rail, self on the bottom. It's astonishing (and most satisfying) just how much wood can be shredded in a short time.
Of course we were noticed by the resident commander of this police state in which we are forced to dwell. She bustled over, tsk tsking all the while. Having examined the damage - I mean our handiwork - she bustled off to the barn. "Good", said Molly, "old bats gone". And she continued using her alarmingly strong and rodent-like Haflinger dentition on the rail thinning project. I wasn't convinced and sure enough, back came Herself, carrying a large black container with some sort of spraying device. The contents were labelled "McNasty". I didn't like the sound of it at all.
She went to work coating the rails with the spray: I sidled over to observe more closely. One whiff of the noxious fumes, let alone the liquid itself, sent me reeling sideways. Herself suddenly spun around and said "Sssssss, sssssss, shhhhhh, shaaaaa", very loudly in my face. I stared at her in utter disbelief. Her face was turning a rich shade of magenta. "SHEAFFER GET OFF MY FOOT", she bellowed. I glanced down. What I had taken to be a lump of ice under my left front hoof was in fact her right foot. A perfectly innocent and honest mistake, in my view. I stepped aside politely but she took the low road, as usual, and was rather short-tempered and peevish for the next while. She limped off to the house, mumbling questionable remarks about those of us with, and I quote, "feet like tiny tent pegs".
So, although our woodworking was cut short, the day was not without it's amusement - and a quite satisfactory and speedy karmic intervention. One takes one's satisfaction where one can find it.