Tonight I’m concerned for Woody. He’s touchy along his withers and he didn’t finish his feed. When I peeled off the vintage McClellan saddle and ran my hand down his back, he pinned his ears and gave me that “Pal, don’t” in the way that sparse words convey danger.
Earlier, when I pitched camp along the South bank of the Neuse, Tom and his daughter Rachel rode to visit and when they departed Woody churned back and forth on his tether with intervals of full bore charges to the end. Then the rope comes up tight and his head goes between his knees and grunts and goes at it anew.
The good news is he’s stayed unknotted so I think he’s learned his lesson. Woody also has two loose front shoes.
It’s getting dark, and just above in the night, jets, reduced to roaring by with their red and green dragon eyes, aren’t helping my stomach ache. I ate my biscuits before they were fully cooked on my wood stove. There’s just a general discontent in the air as now Woody’s broken out in a cold sweat.
We DID make 6 miles though and we DID cross the Neuse on the Minessott ferry so we are making progress…
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