Gotcha

    Our diligent gardener had never called me before.  She always texted.  This time, she called, and tried hard to stay calm.  It didn't work.  Her voice had the same pitch as someone discovering a raccoon in their pantry wearing their slippers.  

    She had a horse issue.

    Let us rewind.

    My husband had an appointment with the optometrist, and was under the tragic misconception that he would be blinded by dilation drops and require a chauffeur.  Naturally, I was drafted.  As it turned out, the appointment was a quick in-and-out; no drops, no drama.  So we headed to one of our favorite Asian restaurants to pick up food for later in the day.     

    We had already ordered when the gardener called.  My husband was hunched over his check register, tongue slightly out, balancing numbers with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb.  His checkbook is sacred territory.  I do not touch it.  I do not breathe near it.

    Our faithful employee breathlessly reported that while she was dumping weeds in the pasture corner, one of the horses bumped the gate and made a break for it.  At the moment, the escapee was in our backyard, blissfully mowing the lawn we had allowed to grow into a lush, three-day, post-rain jungle.

    Our gardener knows weeds, but not horses.  It took a game of Twenty Questions to identify the fugitive.  I already guessed Snickers.  Of course.  She is pushy even on her best days, and she has the moral flexibility of a toddler in a candy aisle. 

 

    Meanwhile, the gardener was explaining, in gasps, that she had to pick up her daughter from the bus stop, and she had waited to long to alert the school she would be late, and she had absolutely no idea how to catch a horse.  She sounded like she was reporting a hostage situation.

    My husband, suddenly cured of selective hearing, perked up.  "Loose horse?"  He looked wildly toward the counter where our food should appear.  His checkbook must have been balanced, because he was no longer guarding it like a dragon with a hoard. 

    I assured the gardener she could leave.  One thing I know: a lone horse who has escaped rarely wants to leave her friends, especially when she is standing in a buffet of premium grass.  We were twenty minutes from home, and the restaurant manager had just assured my husband our food was three minutes from being bagged. 

    In record time, hot sacks in hand, we bolted for the door.  The manager called after us, "Hope you catch your horse!" as if we were heading into battle.

    My husband asked if I needed grain.  No.  Horse treats were my weapon of choice.  I told him he would need to stay with the car.  The horses are not fond of him.  He tends to yell, and they do not appreciate his leadership style.

    We parked to create a slight barrier.  

    There was Snickers, head up, acknowledging us with the smugness of someone who has successfully hacked the system.  Then she went right back to grazing.

    I briskly walked to the barn, careful not to run.  Running is a rookie mistake.  Snickers ignored me on the way across, but when I returned with a halter and rope, she raised her head to lock eyes.  I approached casually like a disinterested observer of local fauna.

    She continued to stare at me.  She fixated on the horse cookie in my hand.  The cookie won.

    She strolled over, took the treat, and while she was still chewing, I slipped the rope around her neck.  She didn't care.  She was focused on my treat-stuffed pocket like a furry pickpocket.  I causally slid the halter over her nose.

    Gotcha! 

    She followed me back to the pasture, belly full, ego inflated, and absolutely certain she had outsmarted the gardener to enjoy a private feast.

    I texted the gardener:  all good, horse retrieved, no casualties.

    Being the wise woman she is, she asked for a lesson on catching a loose horse.  The next day, I showed her the treats, the ropes, the halters, and emphasized the golden rule: never run after a horse.  Strolling is the correct speed.  Preferably with a pocket of horse approved snacks.

    But really, I doubt she will need the lesson.

    My husband has installed a strand of electric fencing across the gate opening.  It should discourage a horse.

    Perhaps.

    Maybe.

    But that grass is very, very green.