Everywhere You Go, There You Are

Every time Jill moved, it included a walk down memory lane.  She had come across some old diary notes:

I love the smell of the tack room. And I miss those moments with the bridle hanging on the hook above the table with the bucket and the sponges in it. I miss driving up the laneway and seeing Stoner out in the paddock with the other horses. For a while, he was ostrasized and it was hard to see him shunned nastily like that in the herd, but eventually, he always finds himself some rabble rousing buddy to hurt himself with. What a goof.

I love Stoney Pony. Remember how I had to kick his butt to pull his mane without tranquing him?  Was that cruel or kind? 

Jill would spend a whole day riding him in tiny intervals to loosen and warm him up and then she would hop off and pull some more. It worked. along with a few good whacks with a broom now and then, along with a shout to "STAND" (instead of kicking out with young students in the barn).

But really, she thought the whole human invention of a specific mane length and the pull vs cut tradition a bit barbaric and unnecessary!