After it was clean, I placed the basin on a flat surface and used a hose to fill it. Frey, watching me intently, as always, slurped up the water right off, not even waiting for me to finish my task. He pretty much emptied the water out, so I let the basin fill up again. When Frey began playing in it, splashing the water all about with his muzzle, I shooed him away, but that warned me that this tiny basin wouldn’t work as a watering trough, not for my mischievous one.
The backyard held a small shed. I walked over to inspect it. The tiny structure, about the same size as the lean-to that I’d restored and lived in, was both immaculate and almost empty. I assumed the deceased woman had used it as a tool shed. Perhaps she’d once kept a garden in her yard and grown vegetables or flowers, although I’d seen no sign of that — no enclosed plot of wood or brick, as those I’d tended in the village. But since the whole yard was currently overgrown by weeds, it was hard to tell. If I were staying long, I’d harness the boys to start some peas, beans, and carrots. “Growing things was a good way to heal from inner wounds,” Old Mother used to tell me.
Presently, the inside of the shed displayed only a few tools, each neatly hung on a nail on the left wall. I was pleased to see a shovel, which I could use to clean up after Frey, but a wheelbarrow was lacking. Where could I cart Frey’s manure to anyway? I guessed that a garbage bin would have to do since there was really no room to start a compost heap, and the neighbors would understandably complain if my horse’s manure drew flies to the area.
However, the small shed would do fine to keep my tack safe from the elements. I could store hay and grain in the shed, too. If I had any chance to earn money, I’d could add a couple more nails to the wall and hang the curry comb and horse brush I needed to buy. I’d left his old ones behind in my rush to get away. Poor Frey hadn’t had a proper grooming since I’d been stoned out of the village.
Meanwhile, I checked Frey’s hooves, making use of the hoof pick that I’d always kept in my pocket. Frey thankfully liked anything I did to him, lapping up the attention like a dog. Unfortunately, his only bad habit was leaning on me. With only three legs, I could see how he might feel a bit unbalanced, but he slept on three, so there was no excuse for me to become his leaning post.
I ranted at him for a moment about that, and he twitched his tail, managing to knock me in the forehead while I was working on his back hoof. But that was probably due to a fly attacking him rather than sassing me for my lecture. I wondered if, when I got paid for that mythical job I was imagining, I should splurge on some fly spray.