Cold air. Brrrr.
Cold air. Burr.
Fall means burrs.
Burrs mean nasty tangles in the manes and tails of my horses.
Burrs mean much lost time picking burrs out of the manes and tails of my horses.
Burrs mean lots of little scratches all over my hands.
Here's Genevieve in a before shot. Her forelock is a solid mass of burr matts.
That's FORELOCK. 'Bangs' for all you non-horsey people out there.
Here's what's left of the pretty little braids the girls made in her mane.
And here is an after shot of Gen's two-year-old colt Pippin, after I spent about 1/2 hour de-burring him.
It was loads of fun.
I like cold weather.
I do not like burrs.
Look, if I have to work my fingers to the bone picking the burrs out of Gen's and Pippin's and Finn's manes and tails, the least you could do is work your index finger to the bone by clicking this brown button to vote for me, right?
That's what I thought. Thanks so much...
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