Racing the clock

Fox hunting is supposed to be elegant.
Tailored riding habit. Polished boots. Well-fitted tack on a spotless horse.

But early Sunday, as I readied for the morning meet, nothing about me spoke elegance: on my knees in my closet, pawing through rumpled clothes in the prepubescent light.

By now, other hunt members were surely dressed and ready — probably loading their horses and a cooler of food — while I was in full frantic mode.

Rifling through plastic-wrapped dry cleaning, in search of a hacking jacket.
Sifting through clothes, which tumbled and gathered at my feet, to find a stock tie.
Tugging and pulling and straining to force my too-tight boots over too-thick socks.
….then frantically tugging and prying off my boots to dump out the stink bugs wriggling inside.

While other fox hunters were probably pottering down the road, I was still fetching Chance from the field and assessing his appearance.

Mane: long and unkempt.
Muzzle: untrimmed.
Body: Right side — moderately clean. Left side? Manure stains on head and neck.
Tail: tangled with hay and bedding.

Thankfully, manure blends nicely on a dark horse. I flicked the hay from his tail, rubbed his coat with a towel dampened in the dog’s water bowl, threw on a saddle and forcibly dragged Chance onto the trailer. Then I hit the gas and — in a great cloud of gravel dust — high-tailed it out of there.

Okay, I added that last line for Martin. I’m certainly not a maniac behind the wheel, but Martin begs to differ. He left the following message on my phone:

Hey, Speedy Gonzalez. When you get back, you might want to retrieve your trailer hubcap — or what’s left of it — on the driveway by the carriage house.”

So a hubcap gave its life for the cause. Bottom line, I made it to the meet…. before 8, not finger-wagging late.

In time to watch the moon set and the sun rise.

pix, courtesy of Bubba Farnsworth. Thanks, Bubba!