That went fine -- the feeder was out of stock, though -- and I came home and lolled about pleasantly for an hour or so, until I started to worry about running out of daylight.
Then I had the next bright idea, which was to drive the truck down the hill into the pasture and dump the bales out of it, rather than try to load 100lb hay bales into my wheelbarrow and roll it down manually. Well, downhill wasn't so bad. Returning uphill, unloaded -- I got stuck.
Several times. After all, I could always reverse out of whatever hole I had dug and try again, right? Except no matter how much momentum I got going, the drive wheels always hit a soft spot half-way up the hill. Result: another hole.
Okay, fine. I'll back up and -- oops. I'll back into the hay I just dumped, and now I can go neither forward nor back. And there is hay jammed under the hot exhaust pipe, and in my mind hay + heat = imminent grass fire, and now I'm not merely peeved but verging on panic.
Fortunately, I got the hay out from under the truck before anything chose to ignite, and better-part-of-valored my way DOWN the hill to the LOWER gate. The neighbors have a hot tape strung across my access to this area, which I figured I would damned well deal with when I got there. I did in fact get there without incident (although I did have to take a second pass at lining the truck up to go through the lower gate, which is narrower than I thought). Helpfully, the neighbor was handy to unstring his hot tape so I didn't have to, and we had a short chat about the state of fencing, wherein he offered to help me string the new stuff coming in next week.
Got my truck back on pavement where it belongs. Seriously reconsidering the value of four-wheel drive.
Went back down, sans truck, to coax the mares to examine their yummy new diet, to which they took quite happily. Sat on a rock to watch them eat as the sunset faded, planets popped out, passing cars turned on headlights, evening wind blew... waitaminnit.
There's Capucine, age 20, in good flesh, pregnant with her fifth foal, due in February, and her belly. There's Petit Point, age 9, slightly ribby, never foaled, similar pedigree, identical diet, and her belly. Her rather bigger belly.
Holy fuck. Petit Point IS pregnant. Intuition says so, and I have no doubt the ultrasound will fall right in line on Monday.
Gaaaaaaaaah. I sure hope Dr. Hilda can guess the due date.
Now, of course, I want to write all the horse people I know (especially the owner of the two stallions who may have sired this foal -- don't ask) and gibber at them, but I have to wait, because there's no point in gibbering now when I can know for sure on Monday.
You, I can gibber to, because you already know I'm an idiot. >:-)