And Life Continues....

The growth on the dog's head?

CURED. GONE. As in, no longer there. As in, no longer staring me down everywhere I go.

Praise be.

I'm really on the fence about posting about work related issues here. It would probably be best that I don't ever mention that I have a job ever again on my blog, and the world can just think that not only am I 23 and living with my parents, that I'm 23, unemployed and living with my parents. Fortunately, I consider myself a wordsmith, of sorts, and I feel that I'm pretty good at talking about something without ever giving out pertinent information. Like, random blathering, where you blather for hours on end and get nothing of importance said. I'm good at that, let me tell you.

I had to use a skill set at work last night that I was trained in a few months ago: A skill set that I've been scared about using since I was in this field, a skill set that I don't ever want to have to use, but that circumstances forced me to use.

Its amazing how much of a process this learning to work with troubled kids can be. I came into this field with a big old question mark above my head: Like, I don't really know why I'm here, and I don't really know what I'm doing, but hey, let's give this shit a whirl, shall we?

You enter into a lot of situations with preconceptions, and when it comes to my professional life, I'm very open minded and willing to admit my faults. I'm willing to listen to others with more experience and find out what they have to offer.

That being said, a lot of a person's (And by 'a person's', I really mean 'my') preconceptions need to be experienced before a person can understand the situation.

So, the skill set. I've always just sort of assumed that workers in this field should be aware of this skill set, but should not necessarily ever be in a position to use it. I've always thought that if a worker was good enough, he or she wouldn't need to use that skill set because of the other options available.

Last night I had to use this skill set I'm talking about, the one I thought I was just such an expert on, and it was such an eye-opening experience.

I really feel like I'm making headway with myself as a professional in this field, as someone who might actually have a future here. I managed myself in a pretty hectic situation, a situation that the me of a few years ago, or even a few months ago wouldn't have been able to handle.

And I'm proud of me.

My Weekend...

I had a good weekend, one of those weekend that isn't really the best, but good nonetheless.

Saturday, I worked a double shift. I decided to shower the night before, a handy little trick I use when I like to do other things, like sleep until the last possible second. It frees up my mornings for hobbies of mine like praying that the kettle will boil faster, so I can have my morning coffee faster. That, and staving off a herd of dogs who are just so damn happy to see me that they near wet themselves (and hence, my mother's kitchen floor) every time I walk into a room.

I started my day by stumbling into the washroom to adhere to my daily regime of washing my face with super-powered acne wash, and then coating it in a thick, clear ointment that smells like a mixture of nail polish remover, diesel fuel, hand sanitizer, and moonshine. Once applied, it feels like a mixture of bleach and milkhouse acid, and sort of has the same effect on my skin. It causes it to dry and peel off my face, leaving behind flesh that isn't quite as acne-ridden as it used to be, but looks like it belongs to a pubescent fourteen year old nonetheless.

During this process on Saturday morning, I managed to get either the wash or the ointment IN MY RIGHT EYE. The left eye, it managed to escape unscathed. But my right eye was BURNING all day long, a sensation that was unpleasant and left me feeling quite cranky.

I've decided, once more, to work on accepting the fact that now that I'm 23, this is probably not just teenaged acne. I made this decision when I was 19, when I was 21, and again now. Which means that every other year, I lapse into denial about my skin. I'm beginning to see a pattern here, and you know, I'm comfortable with that. I like denial, and I like things to be on schedule and in order. So, I suppose it works.

And all this talk of acne leads me to think about Kami, the bird dog. Kami has had this growth on her head for a couple of weeks now. My father, God bless him, has been saying that it is a wart, caused by age. And you know, typically I don't disagree with my dad, generally because he's had more experience with dogs and warts, and because I'm depending on him to take care of my horse for me while I'm at work. But really, an age wart on a five year old dog? I've been skeptical, to say the least.

So tonight I was examining this growth as she lay neurotically in my lap, chewing on her nails and curled up into a ball of anxiety and panic. We are not very much unlike, this dog and I. And I just had to look at it more closely, I just had to give it the slightest squeeze...

And a veritable avalanche of puss and nast came pouring out of the top of my dog's head, something that reminded me of cottage cheese and chocolate milk mixed together in a revolting mound ... not unlike the cherry on top of the sundae, or the meatball on top of the spaghetti.

I simultaneously felt like I was going to vomit all over her puss-covered head and like I deserved some kind of medal. I shrieked for my nephew to bring me a tissue, and I gave it another little poke, and out came more of this filthy nastiness that words can't begin to describe.

I wiped off the dog and ran to the washroom, where I washed my hands for about five minutes consecutively; I scrubbed with a brush, rinsed off the soap, added more soap, used extra hot water, and I scrubbed until the nausea went away.

And afterwards, when I was able to calm down and get over the disgust, I could feel nothing other than complete pleasure and happiness in what I had acheived. The growth appears to have shrunk down, and is no longer glaring out from under her hair like a teacher glaring at a twelve year old boy who is giggling over the word 'sex' in the dictionary. What's more, I WAS RIGHT, DAMMIT. It wasn't a wart. So there.

And now if you'll excuse me, I need to go and scrub my hands some more. Because writing down this experience was almost like reliving the disgustingness all over again.

The Ever-Perplexing Coperni-Kitty...

So, I have this cat. I got her two years ago from my dear, wonderful friend Davey, and at first, I was all smitten with kitten love.

But after a period of time, I learned that not all cats are created equal. And Copernicus was created especially odd. Strange. Off. In need of drugs. Whatever.

I go through phases where I give up on having one of those wonderful cats that most single people are supposed to have. You know, like the cat you see on TV, the one that is there waiting for the single person to get home, just itching to hear about his or her day, and desperate to sit down and have a good cuddle. Typically, Copernicus greets me from the safety of the dining room table, or on top of the freezer; then she howls and bats at me with a paw. And then I reach out to pet her, she bites me, I quickly withdraw my hand, and she disappears once more into the bowels of the house.

I have to say that on more than one occasion, I've been disappointed in the turnout of this cat. She's just not... friendly. She's just not cuddly. She was over two years old before I ever heard her purr.

And frankly, she makes me question my ability to do my job. I'm supposed to be able to socialize teenagers to be respectable members of society. And I can't even end up with a decent frickin' cat?

Fire me. Fire me NOW.

But every now and then, she does something friendly. Like, I came home tonight, and she followed me in the washroom while I brushed my teeth (Because the FIRST thing a crazy person does upon re-entering the house after a fifteen hour day? Is floss and brush her teeth.) [Which reminds me, I need to pick up toothbrushing supplies for work.]

And she did her usual howly thing, stamping her delicate little feet on the linoleum, and I leaned over to pet her, and she actually PURRED. And she let me RUB HER and PET her, and during this process that to most cats is known as AFFECTION, but to Copernicus is known as MURDEROUS TORTURE, she only bit me three times.

And I'm thinking, FOR GOD'S SAKE, CAT. Like, I'm not confused enough after a day with the kids I work with, I come home expecting you to be all fowl and cranky, and you have to be NICE?

Could NOTHING in this life just be CONSTANT?!?

In Pursuit of Higher Education....

Allow me to list here a few things that I've endured in this whole 'Let's Get Educated" kick I've been on for the last five years:

1) Living in the place with the shared bathrooms and the schizophrenic women.

2) My hair being dyed orange by the water in my building.

3) Three years of my life that I AM NEVER GETTING BACK working in a fast food joint.

4) The roommate who decided to be environmentally friendly and do her composting in my kitchen sink.

5) The school medical personell. They decided that, when they couldn't figure out what else to do with me, they would just DRUG ME UNTIL ALL MY HAIR FELL OUT.

6) A nasty case of adult onset acne.

7) Three years of living in a city I hated, dealing with an institution who's service people only ever spoke to me IN A LANGUAGE I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

8) The howly, howly, yowly cat who refused to sleep while we lived together in the depths of Hell.

9) Years upon years of scrimping and saving every last penny, eating ramen noodles for days on end, and just plain not eating some days so that I could spend the rest of my money on beer.

And you know, I'm in my FIFTH year now, five years of insurmountable debt and work and term papers and textbooks and howling animals and insanely busy days that start early in the morning and don't finish until very, very late at night.

And I'm thinking, DEAR GOD, I'm almost done FOREVER.

And then my professor has to wander up to me at break one day and say "Have you considered getting a Master's?"

Brain matter?

Flying out my ears at the speed of light.

As we speak.

Quick List....

1) I slept today until almost three o'clock in the afternoon. I never, ever sleep that late in one sitting. Typically I wake up at six thirty or seven, check my email, and then take a morning nap.

Today I slept until afternoon nap time, which means that I got no naps.

2) I had to run errands today, a task I hate completing because it just takes up so much frickin' time.

3) While I was running errands, I put money in my bank account. Then I took some out to pay back some personal loans, put gas in my car, and buy some wicked-awesome ingredients for supper.

My bank account is now empty.

4) A coworker of mine got pulled over for speeding the other day. He explained to the officer that he was on his way home from a particularly stressful situation at work. The officer asked him what he did, and he explained that he worked in a group home for teen boys. The officer told him that he has SO MUCH respect for what people in our field do, and he let him away with a warning.

Does anyone else find it odd that THE PEOPLE WHO HAVE GUNS think that our job is stressful?

A Better Day To Ride....

I'm tired and I have nothing of value to say on this blog, so I'll put up some pictures instead.



Above you'll see me trotting with Zydo. Note the complete and utter lack of head swinging, rearing, bucking, and psychotic behaviours.



Above, we have a picture of Zydo cantering. Note his rider and her ultimate perfection in the areas of proper seat and hand arrangement. Note also that her BACK IS PERPENDICULAR and, yes, she is quite the hottie in her chaps.



And, of course, we have to have a picture of the Precious Boy on his Auntie's trusty steed. He rode today off the lead for the first time. Zydo wasn't that impressed, and wasn't particularly motivated to go forward for someone who weighs all of sixty pounds. But he was a superstar.

Because he is mine.

And that's what things of mine are.

Superstars.

Excepting, of course, the foul-tempered cat.

A Good Day to Ride... Or Die....

I never got around to posting about my last ride with Zydo, a ride that will be forever etched in my heart as the one that almost did me in.

It was pouring rain last Sunday, the type of driving down, pouring rain that makes most sane and rational people decide to stay indoors with a good book and a glass of wine. But not I. Because I, Dear Readers, am a raving lunatic.

The problem is that I work every day, and as a result, my horse has become incredibly neglected. So my mother decided to force me onto my horse. She was waiting, horse tacked and ready to go when I got home from work.

My dad, Tia, Zydo and myself headed out on what should have been a lovely hack when the rain started coming down in a fashion not unlike that of a million pellets shooting out of a million air rifles at once.

I had a helmet on. Zydo did not.

He started out by dancing about the field on his tippy-toes, tossing his head hither and yon, refusing to walk forward. We managed to go a little further into the field when he decided to practice his pirouettes, a ballet move that is not for the faint of heart (And also not to be performed by horses, from what I understand.)

The rain let up some, and we managed to follow Tia while she practiced walking straight lines back and forth across one of the back fields. And then the rain came back in full force, and nothing was OK from here. Zydo spun, he tossed his head, he ran backwards while he tossed his head. I tried to sit firm, to send him forward by placing my well-tractioned butt in the saddle and giving him some leg.

But he would have none of it.

At this point my heart was racing and my legs were shaking. He kept spinning in circles and I was feeling slightly dazed; he still refused to move in a forward fashion. My dad suggested that we head back to the barn. At first I thought he meant that he would take the horse, and return to pick me up with a blanket and a steamy mug of hot chocolate.

But, no. He expected me to RIDE MY HORSE back to the barn.

So, we headed back. But, we decided that, sothe horse didn't think he was getting away with anything, we would make one more pass of the hay field behind the house before our return. Things sort of started looking up when Zydo said FUCK OFF, LADY.

He began to pace back and forth sideways in the field. I tried to send him forward again, but he would have none of that and decided to spin in circles once more. I tried to back him up, to rush him in circles of the opposite direction, and he dipped his shoulder. I stood up and managed to stay on, at which point I gave him a firm tug on the mouth and told him to walk on.

Oh, no. There was no walking on to be done. He danced some more on his tip-toes, bucked his big fat butt up in the air, and stuck his nose to the ground trying to be rid of me over his head. When that failed, he decided to stand up on his hind legs and box the air with his fronts. His head was tossing and he was making that awful puffing noise that only horses can make.

We finally danced our way back to the front yard, at which point he refused to stand still so that I could dismount. So I had to do a flying, leaping, moving dismount into a giant mud puddle.

My mother is mortified that I stayed on past the first dancing episode. I am too, actually, but I didn't really want to give up. The whole time I was riding, I expected this to turn around, and for us to end up with one of our wonderful rides together.

I suppose the reason I'm not upset about this ride is that I STAYED ON. I saw the whole thing through, I managed to keep my seat, and keep my cool. I really feel that this hideous, awful, heart-wrenching ride has acclaimed me a real rider, one who is brave enough to go out in inclement weather and tell the horse who is boss. Last June, I would have folded up into an unrecognizeable pile of mush, and landed in the grass beside his daintily-moving feet.

But I didn't.

And My God, I love him even more now than I did before, because he's shown me that he still does have quite a bit of spunk in him, that he still has some challenging behaviours that are going to test my strength as a rider.

I passed the test and I love that horse more than it is possibly healthy for a sane and rational human being to love a horse.

Cozy and Warm...

I've gone shopping twice this week, in search of the perfect horse and rider winter attire. I've decided that I'm getting a winter coat from a tack shop this year, one that will be functional and warm, and machine washable for all the horse snot that is sure to be smeared across the front of it.

I looked at several winter riding outfits for myself and decided that, oh, you know, FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS is a little out of my price range. I was, however, at the designer horse stuff store, where the rich folks go and spend their bucks. Because, hey! What else are the rich folks supposed to do with their bucks?

At the designer store, we found a fantastic winter blanket for Zydo, one that is big enough to cover his large frame. It is even big enough to go over the big old lump of fat that has grown on his butt over the last couple months. Because his owner never rides him. BECAUSE SHE WORKS EVERY FRIGGIN DAY OF THE WEEK. SO yeah. I'm a little touchy because I've neglected my horse and been away from home and mostly I've just been wandering aimlessly from house to car, car to house.

Not only is the blanket a perfect fit, but it is a Pessoa blanket. PESSOA. This might mean nothing to the rest of the world, and that's fine. But to me, it means the Mercedes Benz of horse blankets.

Not only is it a Pessoa, but it was ON CLEARANCE for less than half the original price.

After we spent some time at the designer horse store, we went ot the more hard core horse store. This is the place that the real riders go to buy stuff that is going to be used for working horses.

And there I found a perfect winter riding set. It is blue, with a 4 in 1 jacket. The hood on the jacket is large enough to go over a helmet, and the snow pants have a full sueded seat so that when the saddle freezes, I still have a bit of traction. Because riding is actually all about the amount of butt traction you have.

I can't wait to see how many hits I get for people searching terms relating to traction on one's ass.

The Latest Addiction...

You may or may not know, but I work in a rather challenging field.

For this job, I have to be in incredibly good spirits before I walk in the door. I can't be cranky, I can't have a headache. I can't be overtired, I can't be irritable. I simply can not. Dealing with a house full of teenage boys DEMANDS good humor.

I've never been a particularly big fan of coffee. Sure, I used to have a cup now and then, and by now and then, I mean every few months. If I go to a coffee shop, I tend to get an iced coffee beverage rather than a real cup of coffee.

I discovered coffee one day while I was desperately searching for a beverage. I'm not sure if it is the wierd lumpy neck disease I'm suffering from, or if I'm just the thirstiest person on the planet, but lately I've desperately needed a drink everywhere I go.

So, I had a cup of coffee while I was taking a break one night, a particularly tired night, and OH MY DEAR SWEET HEAVENLY LORD.

I was awake. I was perked up. I was suddenly overcome with just a touch of energy, such that I could make it through the shift.

Since that night, several weeks ago, I have become a coffee fiend. I drink instant, I drink the fancy stuff from Tim Horton's. I prefer a well-brewed cup from the gas station that is on the way to work. I take it sweet, laden with 18% cream, and only mildly hot.

But regardless of what it is, if it resembles coffee, I WANT IT IN MY HAND. And I want it now.

And really, once I have it? Once it is in my happy hand, on its sweet and creamy way to my mouth and happily flowing down my throat?

I become a pleasant, happy, sane, and rational person to be with.

And my word, it is grand.

Let's Evaluate, Shall We?

5:Something a.m.: Awakened by the Precious Boy creeping ever so creep-a-liciously into my bed.

Clearly, he has Down Duvet envy.

6:35 a.m.: Creeping into the shower in the dark, so as not to wake the Precious Boy.

7:10 a.m.: After having dressed and fixed my hair in the dark, I walked into the living room, taking note of a rather suspicious odor.

7:11 a.m.: It seems that the Bird Dog has had a bathroom accident, the likes of which is not to be believed. I take it as an omen that when you start your day, quite literally with piles of crap, it won't be a good one.

7:30 a.m.: Head out to work placement.

8:00 a.m.: Get into a car loaded with crazed teenagers and drive to placement.

9:00 a.m.: Arrive at placement.

Until 3:00 p.m.: Contemplate stabbing myself in the eye, repeatedly, with the spoon I packed to eat my Easy Mac with.

4:00 p.m: Working. All the time working.

Until 9:30 p.m.: On an outing with the kids at work.

10:00 p.m.: Arrive at home, feeling slightly light headed and wondering why I didn't drink that fourth cup of coffee.

10:30 p.m.: Check my bank account to see if I had enough money to pay my car insurance.

10:34 p.m.: See that the insurance payment went out.

10:35 p.m.: I have seventy five cents left in my bank account.

In sum, my day started with a ginormous pile of shit, and ended with an overwhelming amount of nothingness.

Oddly enough, my humor is still good, and I'm drinking non-caffeinated, non-caloric, non-alcoholic, low sodium cola.

Clearly, the medication is working.

A New Person...

I had two days off this weekend, two days in a row without going to work or going to school or anything else in my day planner that absolutely needed to be done. I rode my horse twice, the second time for dearly two hours, and they were by far the best hours I've spent with him yet.

I napped, I spent time with the family, watched two movies, neither of which were particularly good, and most of all, I just spent time unwinding.

I feel like an entirely new person, rejuvinated and fresh and ready to face the world once more. Not that I wasn't feeling like facing the world before, I was just a little crankier.

I felt so good this weekend that I thought, Hey! I should do this more often! And I've left a note at work asking my boss for one day each weekend so I can do this sort of thing more frequently.

I'm giddy with excitement at the possibilities: Imagine, more than the hours between four and sunset to accomplish things, to work around the barn, to nap and to ride and to just sit back and be me.

My, but it will be glorious.

Baby Steps. Working in Baby Steps

My blog for today is a lesson in riding lessons, for those of you who are unfamiliar. My mother took a series of rapid-shot pictures of me riding today, and let me tell you, nothing improves one's riding more than actually seeing how awful you look on horseback.



Perfection takes time. Allow me to critique this photo for you. 1) I am doing a wierd bobble-dog thing with my head. 2) My back is not upright at 90 degrees from the saddle. 3) The hands. My God, the hands are floating up in the air where they should be neatly near his neck. 4) My elbows. There is no give or bend in either of my elbows. 5) My Butt. It is waaaaay too far back in the saddle. 6) His nose. WHAT is he doing with his nose? It should be at a 90 degree angle from the ground. 7) His feet. The hind foot that is coming forward should be falling into the print of the front foot. This is called tracking up, and I am not making him do that.

Now, look at this picture:


My head looks less like one of those irritating bobbly-dogs you see in the back seats of family sedans. My hands are orderly, have a firm grip on the reins. My leg is a little further behind the girth; Zydo is tracking up with his feet, making firm, more stable strides. My back is at a better angle, although it should really be in a straight line. My shoulders are up and back, looking less hunched over and maniacal. (Ok, my toes are sticking out. Yeah. I noticed. SHUT UP ABOUT IT, already.)

At any rate, I just find it so frustrating because between the two jobs and classes and trying to, oh, you know, sleep a couple of hours a day so that I don't KILL YOU WHEN I FALL ASLEEP BEHIND THE WHEEL, I just have no time to work on riding. I love riding, and I love my horse. I want to be good so badly I can taste it.

But without the strength I need to improve, and without the time to work on that strength, I'm never going to get better.

Clearly, I need to decide if I'm going to meander around the yard on this horse once a week, or go out and find a personal trainer and get to the meat of this riding thing. And Fast.



At any rate, after our ride tonight, Zydo and I got back in the yard and had a bath. I've never bathed a horse of mine before, mostly because the other horses I've owned have been kind of unfriendly (Read: Had a desire to kill any people who came into contact with them.) But Zydo is such a friendly guy that I had to bath him before the cold sinks in.

So I did, and above you'll note where I said "Zydo and I got back in the yard and had a bath." Yes. We both got bathed in the process because it is kind of hard to contain water from a hose with a horse who is wandering around looking for the better grass.

But hey, he smells sweet and wonderful and he didn't tromp on my toes while I scrubbed him.

What more could I ask for?

Those days...

Ever have one of those days that leaves your head spinning and your mind whirling? And your back hurts and your feet are cranky because for the second day in a row, they've been crammed into boots from dusk until nearing eleven at night?

And you know, you're cranky and you're tired and you'd kind of like to kill some people -- not many, mind you, just one or two -- before you collapse into the wonderfulness of your bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I swear, when I sat down at my computer?

I totally had somewhere to go with this.

And that somewhere?



LOST FOREVER IN THE RECESSES OF MY BRAIN.

And you? You?!

You, my dear, can like it.

More Like a Puppy Than a Horse...

I went down to the barn this morning to hang out with Zydo before my ride to school arrived. I love going to visit him in his stall, because it is time for us to just chill without the pressure of having to get tacked up and ready to go out.

Sadly, Zydo doesn't like to have his picture taken indoors and tends to prance around a lot when I do so. But this morning I got there and his eyes were all dozy, with sleep in them. His hair was mussed up and tousled, full of straw and standing up on end. He looked at me briefly before he opened his giant horse-sized mouth and yawned with his tongue sticking out.

Then he took his big, giant horse head and rubbed it up against me so that I flew back and was pressed between his cuddly nuzzling and the chain link of his stall; I was stuck there being squished and squashed, laughing and trying to maintain some semblence of an ability to breathe.

And suddenly, so suddenly, I had sympathy -- and better yet, empathy -- for Emily, the girl who owns Clifford The Big Red Dog. All Clifford wanted to do was play with Emily like a normal puppy: He wanted to play fetch, and accidentally fetched her a telephone pole, and when he wanted to chase a spool, he stole a spool of telephone wire from the phone company.

And Emily looked on in horror as her giant dog terrorized the neighborhood, and wondered how she would teach this dog that he was special.

I understood where she came from and so much of my early childhood suddenly made sense.

And only then, in my bleary first-thing-in-the-morning stupor did I realize, wait a minute! I don't have to teach this dog that he's special! I don't have to teach him to play different games than other dogs!

HE'S A FRICKIN' HORSE.

But sometimes, he's just so damn cute and cuddly that I can stop for a minute while he nuzzles and plays, and just be a girl and her horse. Species appropriate behaviour, be damned.

The Great Sweet Feed Debate of 2007

Breeds of horses, like people, have stereotypes that go with their names. If you say Arabian, some folks will think 'hot headed crazy horse'. If you say Danish chick, some people think 'drinks like it's her job'. As we all know, these stereotypes are not always true.

Horses fed a high ration of grain each day are said to become hot. Hot tempered, high energy, hopped up on speed... that sort of thing. When Zydo came to live with us here at The Ranch, we had to threaten my father (Also known as He Who Feeds Much Grain) with all kinds of cruel and unusal punishment to stop him from feeding my horse grain. He firmly believes that horses need grain, and when that man feeds grain, he's not here to fuck around. He feeds the horses grain. Lots, and lots of grain.

Zydo is a Thoroughbred, a breed typically known for not reacting well with grain. And because I'm such a fraidy-cat rider, I really don't want my horse to have any more energy than is absolutely necessary for him to trundle around the ring. I'm looking for a horse who is barely conscious, ready and willing to take a nap at any point in the day, and likely to fall asleep in the track if I don't chirp him around every corner.

And so, He Who Feeds Much Grain relented. Zydo was fed a small ration of a fat and fibre pellet mixture for most of the summer. My mother and I rejoiced, and we sang and we danced. We clapped ourselves on the back for reining in He Who Feeds Much Grain. We had WON the Sweet Feed Debate of 2007, and all was right with the world.

But then Zydo started getting a real workout a few times a week. And then he got sick. And even after he was better from his nasty sinus infection, he was still losing weight.

And so, ever so cautiously, I allowed my father to do what he does best. I allowed my father to feed my horse much grain.

I was fully prepared for him to have some sort of psychotic break because of all the stories I've heard of Thoroughbreds and grain. I have to admit that feeding Zydo grain has not made any difference in his temperament.

And while he has never fit the description of the sleepy horse who needs to be chirped around each corner, he certainly hasn't gone through any major personality shifts that leave me wanting to reach for horse-quantity rations of anti-psychotic medications.

And so, Dear Blog, it is here that I admit that I did not actually win the Great Sweet Feed Debate of 2007.

He Who Feeds Much Grain reigns supreme over all matters pertaining to grain. To him must we all turn in all questions regarding grain; our ever-present and all-knowing leader of grains.