Mystic has been on stall rest for two weeks due to a strained tendon in his foot (actually the vet called it something scientific, but this is my translation). For a horse that doesn’t like being stuck in a stall, he’s been surprisingly accepting of his confinement. He gets to spend a few hours in a small paddock during the day so he can stretch his legs and eat niblets of grass.
The upside to stall rest is that Mystic stays pretty clean. I’ve been giving him a weekend bath anyway, partly because I’m a compulsive horse washer and partly because it gives me something to do with him. We can’t do groundplay, we can’t ride, so we do baths.
Yesterday I did my usual: I hosed him, soaped him with Quic Silver, rinsed him off, flicked away surface water with a scraper. He looked amazing: his speckled white coat was luminescent.
Then I put him in a round pen so I could muck his stall (the downside of stall rest).
“I have to go clean your stall,” I told Mystic. “Do not roll in the mud while I’m gone.”
He looked at me; I looked at him. I felt we’d established an agreement.
Off I went to make his bachelor pad more presentable. I checked on him from afar a couple of times; he was happily grazing. I congratulated myself on my efficiency: clean horse, clean stall, good day.
Then I went to get Mystic.
He had only half-kept his promise.
And so it was time to go back to the Quic Silver and the hose. This time the washing took longer. He’d absorbed a lot of mud. But we got it done.
Until next time.