I throw hay for the horses, eat a little breakfast myself and then batch some soap for the Cowpunchers Reunion Rodeo coming up in a few weeks (I'm a vendor this year, so come on out, y'all), fielding phone calls and emails the whole time. After a while I hear a major clang from outside; it's Butthead (the gelding who shall otherwise remain nameless) knocking over the big steel water tub to let me know it's empty. I go outside, water the one tree I planted last fall that actually survived the winter, fill the horses' water, turn butthead out into the arena and then head back inside to check on the soap.
Not a minute later there's a ruckus outside, and l look out the window to see the other gelding (Zzari) wandering willy nilly around the back yard, munching on weeds I haven't quite gotten around to whacking yet. Apparently, I didn't close the arena gate all the way. I go outside to round him up, but the dogs are all riled because of the seasonal cattle that came visiting on the Forest Service side of my fence a little earlier. 
Dogs start chasing the horse who trots away from me, alarmed. Meanwhile, Butthead's having a meltdown in the arena because his buddy broke out, and now he wants to be free, too. As I finally catch up to Zzari and reach under his mane to lead him back into captivity, I look up and see what appears to be a forest fire starting up east of us on this dry, windy afternoon.
And it's here that I want to say this: even though I wasn't raised country, I've spent half my life doing the rural living thang. So I think I've earned the right to say that, at least for today, I totally fit this profile.
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