It's that time of year. Brena's rugged again. I know that she is a tough outdoor Noriker, unclipped and possessor of a good coat. I've provided a field shelter, and the earth inside is beaten flat with hoof prints. But the wind is whistling across the field, cold and rain-bearing.
In the wild, I thought tonight, she and the other horses would be down in the valley, seeking shelter from terrain and the trees. Up here on the hill we've constrained them with fences. So a rug seems a good and fair compromise.
In some ways I've become soft. My horses used to go out unrugged in -20C, and I was content with that. I lived in more primitive conditions too, working long and hard outdoors.
But they had a big shelter where they stood or lay together, out of the wind and rain (or snow, more likely), and they received as much hay as they could eat. The tips of their ears were warm, which was a good sign that they were not suffering. I felt the cold more in my draughty old house.
I stood by Brena as she ate a dinner of mix, alfalfa and carrots, dreaming of my perfect home. It would be a simple cottage by the field, a balcony running the length of the front below broad eaves. But my dreams have moved on: this would be a thick-walled warm straw-bale house with a well insulated roof. I'd be cozy inside. I don't need a lot of space. A combined kitchen and living room plus a bedroom and a study, that would be enough. The study would be lined all around with bookshelves of course. And it would be a nice warm house. All those Transylvanian winters I dreamed of warmth for me. Now I'm warm in my home. The cottage seems like a lovely idea, out in the fields at the frings of the woods. Maybe one day?
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