The Prince and the Potato

It has been so awful hot and sticky around here lately. Even though it’s only in the mid-eighties, I am usually damp and miserable by early afternoon when Brita takes her lunch break and comes for a ride. We go riding anyway, because a casual stroll around the hay fields is the only way to catch a breeze, and we can enjoy the good parts of summer like the shade of the apple orchard and the monarch butterflies on the milkweed instead of just sweltering in the barn and being grumpy about it.

But when we get back to the barn I’m terribly itchy and there seems to be no remedy for it. Even a cool bath and a fan and a nice scratchy towel won’t make me happy. So instead of spending an hour primping and fussing Brita just turned me loose and let me deal with it my way. Fragrant liniments and fancy combs have their place, but sometimes it better to just stretch out and scratch. I headed straight for the potato patch.

I’ll bet you didn’t realize I was a gardener. While we were waiting for the new grass to grow in my little pasture, we planted some potatoes. Now that they’re pulled up the spot makes a great wallow hole. I don’t just grow vegetables, I also have a pretty Morning Glory on the gate post.

I rolled on both sides in the potato patch. It felt so good. It took care of all the drips on my belly, and the water creeping down my legs. I didn’t even get too dirty.

But I made an awful face when I was about to get up.

Brita came to investigate and see what the problem was, and she found this big rock.

It was a 10 pounder requiring two hands to pick up. Owie. But that’s not all. Besides the rock, there was a stray potato!

Have you ever had a potato in your bed? It’s worse than having a pea under your mattress. It gives a whole new twist to the age old problem of lumpy, smashed potatoes.

But I sure do like my little pasture