Belly Fur Icicles

Now, there’s a phrase you don’t run across in ordinary conversation, eh? But after the recent snowallop we took, it certainly applies to the doughty Morgan, who of course rolled vigorously in the soft fresh snow as soon as he was released from the barn where he’d sheltered from the storm into the field and run-in complex where he and his Thoroughbred buddy Ben live most of the time. Commander’s body heat, well stoked by all the hay he inhales, melted most of the resulting white crust off his woolly mammoth exterior, but the drips refroze and -- voila! mini-icicles:



I think they add a seasonally festive touch, don’t you?



Commander is thriving on a mere two cups of grain per day, perhaps because he gets massive amounts of good grass hay to keep him happy and healthily fermenting:



Every now and then he peeks over the run-in’s divider to check on his buddy Ben (“Does he have more hay than me? Does it look tastier? Maybe I could sneak in and steal some?”):



Ben is going commando this year – no blanketing at all, for the first time since I’ve owned him. Left uncompressed, his fine Thoroughbred coat has furred out almost as thick as Commander’s and he’s thriving. He doesn’t roll as much as Commander so in this photo he’s still wearing a dusting of shavings from his stall snoozes:



Of course, when it’s wet and stormy, or bitterly cold as it was last night, the boys get taken into their huge, well bedded and generously hayed stalls. Commander likes that as much as Ben, maybe more; in fact, when I was working on the run-in cleaning today, Commander went over to the exit and stood there, hoping I’d take him back inside. Sorry, little big guy; you’ll have to wait till Tuesday when the next storm rolls in.