Boots, faith, and my physical recovery

Here is a tremendous sign of faith in my future soundness: FarmWife has decided that I deserve a brand new pair of hoof boots! It's a bit of a risk: after all, it's a $130+ investment (or more, depending on the brand) for the possibility of future trail rides. If my hock blows up, well . . . then I'll have them on hand, I suppose, for future hoof injuries or unmounted strolls or loaning out to friends.

FarmWife thought she could get away with using my ratty old pair, but they are in such tatters that when she put them on me in the pasture last week I promptly stepped on the disfigured heel area and ripped one of the things to complete and utter smithereens. That sort of hang-up does not bode well for a long life among the serviceably sound, so into the garbage they shall go. (Not really into the garbage: FarmWife's Scottish blood compels her to keep every potentially useful article in the spirit of "waste not, want not," so it's into the parts bin for these boots.)

Wish me luck as I save up for new boots, and even more luck as I try them out this fall. We can all hope, together, that my performance warrants the expense.

Ears,
FenBar

I wear boots only on the front—can you tell?