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Riba and Ida escaped last week when I wasn't home and went in search of
the perfect mesquite tree. The landlord, a geologist and non-horseman, was
the only one here, and he saw them gallop by and went after them. They, of
course, led him a merry chase in the hot Tucson sun. He learned you can't
win a tug of war with a fjord. In the middle of his struggles, a woman
stops her car and he thinks, "Help at last," and she and her child come up
and go, "What kind of a horse is that?"
He said he couldn't remember which was which, so he just kept calling both
their names -- unlike the dogs, they don't come when called. He only had 1
halter and 2 horses to catch. When he finally caught one, of course the
other followed, but he didn't know that would happen. Then he said he opened
both stalls, and just let them choose, because he didn't know who was who.
The man is a saint.
The girls, by the way, are very happy here and the heat doesn't seem to be
bothering them that much. They have shade trees in the day to stand under
and I get to turn them out all day every day again. I liked the people and
the place I had them in in Las Cruces, where Cynthia is now, but this is even
better because they're with me. We're having to relearn a few ground
manners.
Gail in Tucson
