As a relatively unencumbered (currently no pets, and a house in suburbia) horsewoman, I find myself farm sitting regularly. I enjoy taking care of someone else’s animals and making sure they all remain healthy and happy while their owners are gone. Murphy’s Law generally insists that something go wrong, however, with at least one of the horses/dogs/cows/cats/fish (or an appliance/garage door/the electricity), but for the most part I’ve been successful in keeping everything in one piece. And I’ve enjoyed the farm life in the meantime.

Even though I’ve owned and cared for horses off and on throughout my life, I get lessons in horse care every time I farm sit. Once it was “Bowed Tendon Rehab 101” and “Don’t Have a Heart Attack When You See the Older Belgian Cross Stretched Out Flat in the Moonlight.” Then there was the “It’s Never Good to Hear Unattended Hoofbeats in the Aisle” lesson. All provided very practical take-homes. My most recent stay at the farm also taught me something very useful: While manure happens, sometimes it presents surprises.

Sacrifice area

Seeing these little reddish bullets in the gelding’s manure made me reconsider breakfast

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