Tom was a good sorrel horse. I rode him a few days in the feedlot one winter. He tolerated the tooke, snowsuit, mittens and my 60 below boots which all made it hard just to get on a horse.
One day when it was around 35 below my cowboy found an obviously not-sick-enough heifer he thought needed treating but when he went after her she got by him. I thought it would be easy to cut her off at the fence but she went under my horse instead of stopping. Tom bucked and I blew out the back falling hard on a frozen cow pie.
Well, I fell off but my big old snow boots stuck in the stirrups. They came off my feet (luckily and not so luckily), finally shaking loose, and falling to the ground about 6 big jumps away. My cowboy, of course, was more worried about the trauma I had caused the horse by my falling off and lit out after the horse to catch and calm him down. Meanwhile, I'm a long way from my boots and I couldn't very well walk over there across the snow on my already cold stocking feet.
I decided to crawl since my snowpants and mittens would protect my hands and knees. On my way I somehow managed to drag one foot through some fresh cow pucky and when I got to my boots I decided it would be better to take off my sock rather than sticking that mucky thing in my boot. That's how my husband found me when he came back with Tom: taking my sock off.
By then I was mad. "You care more about the horse than you do me. I could have been laying here with a broken leg. Fat good you are when I get dumped." I tiraded till I was all madded out. I could see him trying really hard not to laugh. "What?" I grumbled.
All he could spit out before he lost his composure was, "But why are you taking your socks off?"
And I didn't tell him.
The Keurig and a Wednesday Night
19 hours ago