Alternate Title: And how was YOUR Sunday afternoon?
Yesterday was a cloudy, rainy, windy day. After lunch Horsecrazy Annabelle and I decided to load up and take our horses to the indoor arena for a nice relaxing afternoon ride. The weather had been pretty bad all week, so our riding time had been more limited than usual and we were anxious to stretch our legs.
Five year old Annabelle went out and caught the horses. I was in the shower, so I didn’t realize there was a driving rain outside until I looked out the window to see my little girl approaching the horse trailer, with her horse Grumpy and my mare Spice in tow. She was totally drenched to the bone, but determined to go anyway.
I made it outside and we loaded up for the drive. Our first obstacle was a looooooooong train. We waited it out.
We met up with some friends at the arena and chatted for awhile.
Horsecrazy Annabelle went right to riding, while I stood around for some time just shooting the breeze.
I love talking nearly as much as I love riding, so I did more of the former than the latter. Annabelle rode the whole time.
After we had been there for an hour or two, we got ready to leave. We said a merry goodbye to our friends and headed outside. Ingress and egress at the indoor arena is via a huge overhead garage-type door, which you roll up to lead your horses under. A door, by the way, that our horses had been in and out of at least two dozen times over the course of the winter.
I pulled on the chain to roll up the door. When the door was about 4 feet off the ground I turned to Annabelle to tell her to wait to approach until I got it rolled all the up. I shouldn’t have worried about her.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blur. Then I felt Spice’s reins pull right out of my hand as my quiet and sensible little bay mare ran toward the light. As I mentioned, the door was about four feet off the ground. The saddle horn of my saddle was about five feet off the ground. You do the math.
There was a huge crash and then a really loud screeching sound as the horse and saddle pulled the door partially off the hinges and bent the bottom panels beyond repair.
Once she was outside, Spice stopped and turned, looking at the door and snorting softly. I went and wrapped her reins around the post while I figured out what to do. I think she looked sorry.
My friends approached and said “What on earth happened?!” I couldn’t really answer that.
All I said was “My husband’s gonna freakin’ kill me!”
This was a phone call I definitely did not want to make. The last time I had to call Handsome Hubby after a non-injury accident, that one involving a brand new $70,000 living-quarters horse trailer and an unfortunately-placed concrete post at the Reno Snaffle Bit Futurity, he did not speak to me for three whole days. I foresaw perhaps a similar attitude after this day’s events.
We spoke with the owner of the barn. He was very nice. He assured me that accidents happen, and he would get a bid and give me a call. He seemed unconcerned.
I didn’t want to call Handsome Hubby. We spent some more time visiting.
We took a long look at the door from the outside. Dan, the barn owner, had been able to roll it down somewhat so that it blocked the wind.
Then we got in the car.
I could avoid it no longer.
I called Handsome Hubby. I started to cry. I told him the story. I admit I briefly considered blaming it on Annabelle. But she’s not a very good liar.
There was a long pause. I could practically hear him biting his tongue.
Then he said these words: “Well, we can buy a new saddle and we can buy a new door. As long as you and Annabelle are OK that’s all that matters.”
I love that guy.
Chronicles of a Desperate Horsewife 