Gus seems fine again. He trots and trots and trots. He walks swoopy figure-eights in the barn corners. He pirouettes. He does little shoulder-softenings and neck-gives as we walk in a big circle. He grabs the ball and flaps it all over the backboard and rim before dunking it into the net.
He grazes eagerly on the half-dead winter lawn, but he leaves it graciously when he sees the horses being brought into their stalls and hears the rattle of grain and feed-buckets. He tucks into his hay with such focus that he barely notices my arrival with the hoof pick; he hands over his feet (as it were) without even a flinch of resistance.
So . . . what was his problem last week? The barn was the same, the weather was well within the same parameters, my visits were the same. All I can recall is that when he was acting down (acting up is what he does when healthy), and several horses were also judged by their owners to be “not quite right,” we had a full moon. Gus is already so hirsute that I can’t tell by looking, but maybe he’s a real-life were-ass?
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