It is very difficult to be aesthetically pleasing when you are knee deep in muck, frantically attempting to get your big hulk of a horse to heel.  Or move.  Or whatever it is that horses do when they get out of your way.  So, when Ty Winters came over to check on my progress, I wanted to abscond from this pile of manure and go, well, anywhere else.  This entire situation was detrimental to my social life.  It almost reminded me of some sick sitcom: Me, My Crush, and a Horse.  An evil horse.

    “How’s it going?”  Ty glanced at me quizzically, his eyes studying my mud incrusted clothes and my death grip on the reins.

    “It’s…okay.” I wanted to tell him that I wished I hadn’t signed up for this philanthropy project in the first place.  How could I manage to clean the barn when the stupid horse wouldn’t even listen to me? 

    Okay, I admit it; I don’t know the first thing about horses.  This may be a tacit reference to my previous role as a slick city kid, or perhaps my predilection for shopping malls and cinemas over farm work drudgery.  Either way, my lack of empirical knowledge on the subject led me to believe that horses were obsequious, gentle creatures willing to carry you around for carrots.  I was wrong.

    “Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

    “I’m fine.  Really, everything is okay.”  My tautology seemed to have little effect on Ty, for he grabbed the reins and tugged.  The horse, sensing an opportunity to further aggrandize her power, promptly stepped on his foot.  Ty yelped and I muttered something unpleasant under my breath.  This horse’s autocratic behavior was really wearing on my nerves.

    As Ty bent over to examine his foot, a farmhand sauntered toward us, his face caught somewhere between pity and amusement as he surveyed the scene.

    “Lucy girl,” he stated affectionately.  “Giddy up.”  The horse turned without protest and headed toward the barn, her tail swishing mischievously.  The farmhand followed her without another word.

    For a few moments Ty and I stood in silence, staring at one another.  Then, we both began to laugh.

    “You can lead a horse to manure,” I told Ty as our laughter finally subsided.  “But you can’t always make her leave.”

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