My son, my daughter and I were mounted on our horses out in the pasture. A cool breeze swirled around us as our mounts exhaled softly with their heads lowered. We had saddled up our trusted, reliable equines in smooth, oiled saddles and rode in the attempt to catch a rather saucy, young filly who disdained work. We had chased her enough for her to break a light sweat on her shiny, chestnut coat and were now waiting for the initial adrenaline to die down in her so we could grab her with a leadline on foot.
As we stood, we notice our fleabitten stallion, Adonis Silver Storm, aka Rocko, scrutinizing our actions from his paddock. His ears were perked forward and his neck arched upward. My daughter commented on how he needed to be worked today. When she said his name, his eyes locked on our group. I agreed. When I said Rocko's name, he figured he was next. He peeled his ears back, snorted in disgust, and backed up behind his run in.
There he stayed and hid, occasionally taking a quick peek out. Much to his chagrin, we later found him and walked him out. With a sign of compliance, he doggedly followed us from the paddock.
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