You may notice the previous post has very slim content - in fact none. It came about when Penny leaned her chin on the typing machine and published her very first work. I think it may be a silent protest against her Friday visit to the veterinarian. It is part of an annual health protocol wherein various needles are stuck in her person and various parts of her anatomy poked and prodded. She feels about needles as I do - she loathes them. I will leave the post as is to show my solidarity with her protest. Down with needles.
Meanwhile Chester's teeth await filing as the medical man is swamped with (what else) requests to stick needles in other hapless equines, emergencies etc. In true Haflinger fashion, pointy teeth haven't slowed down his caloric intake one iota. He has gained about one hundred pounds since arrival and is looking quite the prosperous young man.
In his four years of life he has learned various things but his ability to connect them remains understandably sketchy. Thus, a young human called Justin who specializes in horse education and tutoring has been called in. He worked with Chester in his stall last week, teaching him to turn when pressure is put on his side and not to prop himself, giraffe-like against the request. It's a very simple exercise, which Molly and I both learned at an early age, but one which Chester found difficult because it has never been explained to him properly. He became quite hot with trying but by the end had his head neck lowered and his hind end moving away fluidly. One can never overstate the importance of learning the abc's of communication before trying to write a novel. Chester and the Woman have been doing homework in this basic exercise in preparation for next week's lesson.
On the grooming front, Chester is a firm believer in mud baths, which he takes often, layering one coating of ooze over another. He looks and smells like a swamp creature. His sleep habits are equally as messy. He lies down and performs what look to be olympic swimming exercises in his bed before falling asleep. He usually picks a newly minted mound of manure as a pillow, and given the plenitude of green, grassy foodstuffs, his head is permanently dyed on one side. The Woman scrubs at him in vain but she avers that he looks the spitting image of someone called Braveheart who apparently went about with a blue face.