Henry and I have now been at the farm I’m barnsitting for since last Friday. It’s a small private barn with lovely Trakehners that the owner does dressage with. Her ring is super nice, a lovely long dressage court with rubber and sand footing.
I’ve had a couple nice dressage rides since we’ve been here, and hacked out in the fields a couple other days. But yesterday I decided we really wanted to jump. A quick perusal found a few standards but no jump cups or poles here in Dressageland. Then as I was out in the ring picking up the letters that the wind had knocked over, it suddenly hit me. Put a bunch of dressage letters together and what do you get?
No, not kvepf. You get a jump, people… you get a jump.
Poor long-suffering Henry has been with me long enough to not be even remotely phased by any of my bullshit or harebrained ideas, so naturally he didn’t bat an eye when I pointed him at it.
Every time I think I’m being clever about jumps or courses he’s like “whatever lady, you bore me. But I’m cute and I haven’t killed you yet, so give me cookies!”. Touchè, Henrypants… touchè.
This is what happens when you leave a crazy eventer alone at a dressage barn for a week. Next thing you know I’ll be dragging out the patio furniture. I’m kidding! Be reasonable, I can’t lift that stuff over the fence by myself.