My Not So Perfect Life(64)

“I think he likes you.”

“Really?” Demeter looks pink and rather pleased. “Should I get on?”

“No, no.” I give a merry laugh. “This isn’t a riding activity. It’s a bonding activity. And we’re going to use an implement that was forged in this very farm, generations ago.” I reach into my jute bag and adopt an expression of awe. “This,” I say in hushed tones, “is an authentic hoof-picker. It’s been used on Ansters Farm since medieval times.”



Another lie. Or maybe not. Who knows? It’s an old cast-iron hoof-pick, which has been knocking around the stable for as long as I can remember. So, actually, you know what? Maybe it is medieval.

“We’re going to be cleaning out Carlo’s hooves, following the traditional, authentic Somerset method.”

“Right.” Demeter nods intelligently. “So, are there different methods in different counties, then?”

“This is an exercise in trust,” I continue, ignoring her question, which was actually quite sensible. “And empathy. And rapport. Grasp Carlo’s front leg and lift it up. Like this.”

I lean against Carlo, move my hands reassuringly down his leg, grab his hoof, and lift it up. Then I replace it.

“Your turn.” I beam at Demeter. “You’ll feel the power of the horse channeling through your hands.”

Looking apprehensive, Demeter takes up the same position, runs her hands down Carlo’s leg, and tries to lift up his hoof. Which, of course, he won’t let her do. She’s far too tentative, and he can be an obstinate old bugger, Carlo.

“Try speaking to him,” I suggest. “Try reaching out to his soul. Introduce yourself.”

“Right.” Demeter clears her throat. “Um. Hi, Carlo. I’m Demeter, and I’m here to clean out your hoof.”

She’s hauling on his hoof, but she’s not getting anywhere. Once Carlo’s hoof is planted down, it’s as if it’s welded to the floor.



“I can’t do it,” she says.

“Try again,” I suggest. “Run your hands gently down his leg. Praise him.”

“Carlo.” Demeter tries again. “You’re a wonderful horse. I feel very connected to you right now.”

She yanks desperately, her mud-splattered face puce, but I can tell she’s never going to manage it.

“Here, let me,” I say, and get Carlo’s hoof up. “Now. Grasp the pick, and clear out the mud. Like this.” I remove a minuscule amount of mud, then hand the pick back to Demeter.

I feel an inward giggle as I see her aghast expression. I mean, I don’t blame her. It’s an absolute sod of a job. Carlo’s hooves are huge, and the mud has impacted in them like concrete.

Ha.

“Right. Here goes.” Demeter starts scraping at the mud. “Wow,” she says after a bit. “It’s quite…difficult.”

“It’s authentic,” I say kindly. “Some things are best done ‘old school,’ don’t you think?”

Like those bloody handwritten surveys, I’m thinking. They were “old school” too.

By the time Demeter’s done all four hooves, she’s breathing hard and sweating.

“Very nice.” I smile at her. “Don’t you feel a wonderful rapport with Carlo now?”

“Yes.” Demeter can hardly talk. “I…I think so.”

“Good! Now it’s time for our mindful cleansing activity.”

I lead Carlo out and tie him up. Then I hand Demeter an old bristle broom and say seriously: “This broom has been used by generations. You can feel the honest labor in its handle. As you sweep away the manure in the stable, so you sweep away the manure in your own life.” I hand her a fork. “This might help. Put all the dirty straw in the wheelbarrow.”



“I’m sorry. Wait.” Demeter has got the swivelly-eyed look I remember from the office. “I don’t understand.” She jabs at the broom. “Is this…metaphorical?”

“Metaphorical and real.” I nod. “That’s very astute of you, Demeter.”

“What is?” Demeter looks more confused.

“In order to sweep away metaphorical rubbish, you must sweep actual rubbish. Then the activity becomes mindful and you benefit all the more. Please. Don’t wait. Begin.” I nod at the manure-strewn straw.

Demeter is motionless for a moment, looking dumbstruck. Then, like some obedient slave, she begins sweeping, so diligently that I feel another tweak of admiration for her.

I mean, good on her. She hasn’t complained or bailed out or squealed at the mess, like those children the other week who claimed they wanted to learn “pony skills” and then said it was too smelly and ran off, leaving me to clean up.

“Well done!” I say encouragingly. “Very nice action.”

I head out into the sunshine and pull from my bag the flask of coffee I made earlier. I’m just pouring myself a cup when Steve Logan saunters by. Damn. I didn’t necessarily want anyone witnessing any of my “bespoke” activities.

“Why’s he here?” he says, seeing Carlo tied up. Then he glimpses Demeter in the stable. “What the hell—”

“Shhh!” I grab him quickly and pull him out of earshot. “Don’t say anything.”