Liberty

I'd forgotten how pretty she was. Sure, I'd gazed into the photos that Pony Girl had posted recently, but it's not quite the same as gazing into her eyes first hand. And her muzzle...when had it become so black, with such a pretty silver lining in her nostrils?

Lib had done well since Chance's weaning. She'd gained some weight on her topline now that she wasn't producing milk like a holstein. Somehow she'd managed to get her lead rope off. Isn't that they way it is? You show up to haul a horse, only to find they've tried to outsmart you the night before. We tightened up the panels, though, and she stood there playing head games for a few minutes (as in, bobbing it first to the left, then to the right in an attempt to keep my hand and the lead rope from connecting with her halter), but eventually the lead was snapped back into place and before you could say Bob's Your Uncle, she was in the trailer.

Okay, perhaps you could say Bob's Your Uncle several times before she got in, but it was still relatively painless. Deb, who'd acted as foster mom, had done a great job in keeping up with daily visits and desensitizing while Lib had been with her. There was little fear in this eleven year old wild one yesterday, simply a desire to avoid climing into the box on wheels. Once the lead was on she allowed me to rub on her face, both her cheek and forehead, and eventually she was inside the trailer and the doors closed behind her.

And now she's home, safely behind a pretty board fence, nestled in beneath the fall foliage of the Mt. Baker foothills, several hundred miles away from the deserts she once called home. And from the looks of things, she's ready to start her new career...in basket ball?