Fight For What's Yours!, A Parable

"I can't see you from down here," he told me. "Can't hear your voice or Gwen's. No way I'm staying that far away." And he backed up his talk with the kind of horse screaming that made it sound like he was going through the kind of torture that would put me smack dab behind bars. So, instead of chomping their way through the pasture, Huck and Elaine inhabit a corral about 10 feet from the main house. Sure, grass was growing quite well there when we put up the fence, but by a week later it was gone. Eaten. Crushed. Burned out by horsepucky. Anyone who knows horses knows how that goes. And anyone who knows horses also knows what corral life means. Schlepping lots of hay. And, in the late winter and early spring, trying to find enough of it to schlep. Especially if the horses are totally devoted to alfalfa. In California, Huck and Elaine dined on alfalfa that was moist and sweet and ribboned with little purple flowers. And why not? Alfalfa thrives there. But in Paradise, the ground is too hard and rocky for long alfalfa roots.The hay's got to be imported, and as time slips further and further behind the last summer-cut alfalfa becomes more and more scarce. Last year's drought conditions have added to the problem, and, to cut to the chase, last week I started feeding the horses bales of Bermuda, orchard and Timothy grass, and the result has been one mighty battle of wills. Huck hates the stuff. And let me know it from the beginning. "Pfaugh! Yuck! You call this food?" His voice rose shrilly. "It's not even soft enough to be bedding for a pig!" Continued: http://www.rense.com/general76/fight.htm

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