Murphy (17 days old)
You know, I don’t get this. I really don’t. My mother is losing it. I am not a burrowing animal. Nuh-uh.
I’m outta here!
I have a short Murphy story:
Last week, I was in their stall, grooming Barbie. Barbie is patient but firm with her baby. She’ll “share” her grain (he’s gumming everything), her alfalfa, her grass hay, even her body.
But, apparently, God help him if he comes between her and her stylist. (Me.)
Poor guy was delegated to a corner while she got her back scratched, her mane straightened, her hooves done, and a complete rub down. He did not understand. She didn’t care. After 45 minutes, she calmed down, and allowed him near us. He pretended to nurse (sooooo smart) and then casually began to wedge himself between our bodies, testing. She glanced back at him mildly. He ducked back out, and went into the corner.
Good. I didn’t have to do that. Thanks, Barbie!
She didn’t need to be brushed anymore: she was clean. But who can resist a horse looking at you, begging: Ooooooo that feels SO good! (Not Jane.) I kept going.
Murphy was testing boundaries and began walking around us. Mom was cool with it, she was done being possessive of her stylist. I’d just finished rubbing her butt, and was working on her mane with the bristle brush…
…when Murphy mounted Barbie from behind.
I stepped out-of-the-way, to let Barbie handle it. (It’s always better if it comes from mom.) Problem. She didn’t. I’m not sure she even felt the weight. I’d just rubbed there. Quite possibly she assumed I grew two new arms. I shooed him off, and gave him ‘mare’ body language, equal to lifting a hind foot in warning.
Murphy hot-foots it back into the corner.
Jane continues to brush Barbie’s mane. Barbie luuuuvs the bristles scratching her crest. A half a minute goes by.
I feel movement behind me.
At the wrong height.
I turn around, and there’s Murphy on his hind legs, getting ready to put his front hooves on my shoulders. Luckily, I turned around with the hairbrush in hand, bristles face out.
He was still small enough I could have accidentally hurt him if I over-reacted.
I stand there. He hangs there. I can see the “Whoops, got caught” bubble over his head, as his mind races through how to get out of this scenarios. It’s a little like catching a kid rifling through your purse. My hand? Uh. It’s in your purse? Wow. Didn’t notice…I think it fell in there?
He came down, raking his muzzle against the out-facing bristles of the hair brush. His face flicks in surprise: OWWWWW.
Certain something tried to kill him, he ducks behind mom and cowers next to her.
Barbie, feeling his fear, looks over her shoulder at me inquiringly: ???
I give her the same look back (???), and shrug. Kids.
Tell me about it, Barbie says. She goes back to eating, and positions her mane closer to me.