On the few days a year that the weather threatens to seal over the water trough, we – I am employing the barn “we” here – bring buckets of hot water to the barn. Obviously, this wouldn’t be possible if we had real winter, or a large number of horses. As is, the project is just enough of a P in the A to make us feel virtuous without being impossible to execute.
Mathilda would wait for her tea to cool to a drinkable temperature. Rodney plunges his nose right in and slurps down half a bucket. Milton gets pissed.
The trough is still open but the water is too cold. The water in the buckets is too hot. Milton will advance just the tip of his nose near the water to check the temperature. Nope, this one is hot. Nope, this one is hot also. He’ll go along the row, from bucket to bucket, hoping to find one that pleases his Highness. Then he curls one front foot, in the manner of a prancing statue. This is his mannerism when he wishes to express his dismay with the arrangement of the universe. Then he starts whacking at the buckets. Yes, we laugh at him. We also bring him a bucket of warm water.
It’s good to be one of our horses.