He began nickering softly, the kind he’d started when he was a foal. It was the equivalent of a cat’s purr, telling me that despite the excitement of a horse at the gate, he was willing to be loved and babied. He leaned into me, getting closer. Unfortunately, he no longer had the weight of a foal. I briskly ordered him to stand on his own feet and pushed back against his breast slightly. He understood the censure and stopped leaning, but his head remained dropped over my chest, and his baby nickers continued.
Meanwhile, the driver had backed sufficiently into the area so he could unload the hay. I called out that I’d very much appreciate it if he’d put the bales into the shed. As I watched, glancing now and then around Frey’s big head, which was more or less blocking my sight of the shed, I could tell that the man was doing exactly that.
When he’d finished, I asked about a water tub for Frey. The man took a look at the basin I was using, chuckled, then said, “Sure, I’ve got one, but they’re not cheap.”
Mrs. Penn stepped forward. “I’ll cover the cost,” she said. “Anything else you need for your horse, Shama?”
“Um, a curry comb, a brush, and some fly spray? But I promise I’ll pay you back as soon as I get . . .”
“Enough. We’ve already discussed that, Shama,” Mrs. Penn said curtly. “Does your horse need some grain and bags of carrots, or anything else of the sort?”
Wow. Mrs. Penn deserved a plaque for generosity. I hated to add to my growing list of things I owed her for, but this was for Frey . . .
“Please, to both of those. Thank you so much.”