You must laugh neither at me nor at FarmWife

Don't laugh at me for loitering with my feet in buckets, and don't laugh at FarmWife for buying the gravel that must have bruised her mule. She wanted was was best for me, and she truly thought I needed the gravel to stay safe. I do need the gravel to stay safe, really—I came to Bent Barrow Farm with rainrot, thrush, and scratches, and I cannot live in mud. FarmWife needs to sweep her gravel, which has compacted nicely but for some large stones that remain on the surface. One of these must have hurt me.

I'm able to stand and walk comfortably, with a small limp, when I'm wearing my EasyBoots. I'm able to graze happily in the grassy—not rocky—pasture. I'm able to sleep comfortably in a deeply bedded stall. I'm able to soak my tender toes in a warm epsom-salt bath twice daily. I'll do these things until I'm all better, and FarmWife will sweep and sweep and sweep.

We'll be alright.

Ears,
Fen.