Ugh....

Oh, Zydeco, you old fool.

Lat year, after Zydeco made a valiant effort to kill himself, he was magically healed. I'm not sure how this happens, but it does. My horse hurts himself in fantastic fashions, and manages to carry through with nary an ill-effect. After his magnificent injury was dealt with, we moved on to dealing with his arthritis, and this, too, appeared to be healed. All was right with the world and the sun shone down on me each day.

It is no secret that Zydeco was purchased for me with a known problem: He was arthritic in his right front knee. I knew it, my parents knew it, we all knew it. No biggie. We'll give him some painkillers and see if we can't get me properly positioned on a horse before buying me something more suitable to competitive riding.

But I've been caught up. Screw competitive riding, I'm caught up in a love affair that I never thought I would find myself in.

Fuck.

I say the same thing every time I fall in love, or in like, or even in mild interest with something. Fuck. Because I know that once I feel love, or like, or even mild interest in something, it will consume all of me.

Fuck.

I got Zydo, figured I'd use him for a year or two to hone up some skills, and move on.

But no.

It's not really that easy. Because I've fallen in love with Zydo.

And as our love affair has progressed, so has Zydeco's arthritis. Last year, we had him remedied with a multi-million dollar treatment that caused us to re-mortgage the farm three times and go without food or beverage for the better part of the year.

Not really, but it was a pretty pricey move. And because it was a miracle cure, and because my horse was sound after receieving this treatment, this year, my parents gave me an early birthday gift. They had my horse injected so that he would be sound for his two months living at The Ritz.

It has not created for us the results we thought it would.

I am disheartened and sad because it is one of those last-ditch efforts you can give to a horse like Zydeco.

The thing with this damn horse is that he just won't quit. No matter that he is sore, no matter that his knee hurts him, he wants to work. He is happiest being groomed and tacked up and saddled up and brought to the arena. Once I'm on him, or even once my nephew or my father or The Berry Queen is on him, he just keeps going.

I wish he'd give me a sign. I wish he'd look at me with those magnificent Thoroughbred eyes and tell me that he doesn't want to work any more. Alternatively, he could pitch me across the arena the next time I plant my hundred-and-you-don't-need-to-know pound ass in his saddle, thereby telling me in clear language that he is not happy to carry me. But he won't.

I'm sure it's because he loves me. The same way I say "Fuck" when I fall in love, or in like, or even in mild interest with something, Zydo is standing in his 14 x 14 stall right now saying "Fuck".

He's probably shaking his head and telling everyone who will listen about his troubles, heaving a big sigh, taking another bite of the luxurious hay they are feeding him, rolling his eyes, and steadying himself for the next ride.

Because he loves me.