The alarm goes off at 5:30 AM. It’s dark. It’s cold. And the first sound I hear, before I even get my boots on, is a sound that sets the tone for the entire day.
It’s a high-pitched, demanding, “WHINNNNYYYYY.”
It’s not a “hello.” It’s not a “good morning.” It is the equine equivalent of a spoiled royal ringing a little bell for their butler. It is a sound that translates directly to: “My food portal is empty, and you are 45 seconds late, you useless peasant.”
I trudge out to the barn, and three perfect, beautiful, expensive heads pop over their stall doors. Their ears are pricked. Their eyes are bright. And there is not a singular bit of appreciation in any of them.
You have to understand the dynamic. On a #farm, you are the help. The #horses are the ungrateful, 1,200-pound, four-legged bosses who don’t pay you and communicate exclusively in glares of mild disappointment.
I get “the look” as I dump grain in their feeders. It’s the “Is that it?” look.
But the real work, the real test of my soul, is the #farmchores.
I go to the first stall. I spend 20 minutes mucking it out. I sift, I rake, I create a beautiful, fluffy, pristine bed of clean shavings. It is a five-star hotel room. I am an interior designer of manure. I step back, proud of my work.
My horse, let’s call him “Satan’s Freeloader,” walks in. He takes one look at the clean stall, walks directly to the exact center, makes direct, unblinking eye contact with me… and pees.
For a solid 30 seconds.
He didn’t even have to go. That was a statement. That was a power move.
I move on to the water troughs. It’s freezing, so they’re all solid ice. I spend the next hour with an axe, smashing ice, my fingers frozen, my face numb. I haul 5-gallon buckets of hot water from the house to top them off so they’re perfectly lukewarm.
A “thank you,” you ask?
No. Not a singular bit of appreciation.
One of them comes over, dunks his entire head in the perfectly clean, warm water, and blows a snot-bubble in it. Then he looks at me like, “This water is now… used. Bring more.”
The other one, the mare, just stands there. She won’t even look at the trough. She’ll wait until I am 100 yards away, and then she’ll decide it’s acceptable to drink. She can’t let me see her enjoying the fruits of my labor. It would give me too much power.
At the end of the day, I’m covered in mud, hay, and a substance I’d rather not identify. I’m exhausted. I lean against the fence, and they all just stand there, placidly, ignoring me.
“You’re welcome,” I mutter.
One of them swishes his tail. It’s the closest I’ll get. 🤣
