The road to Mudville.

It’s back – the season of mud.

When the ground starts to thaw, all that snow, and later, the rain that will come, must go somewhere.

Before it seeps into the ground to quench the thirsty soil, and ultimately make the pasture green, it begins as mud.

Please understand, this isn’t a technical description. I’m certain a soil sciences person would have a much more accurate/scientific explanation.

This is my experience, from being knee deep in the stuff, sliding around the pasture hoping my car won’t get stuck.

Again.

I figure that counts as much as a scientific explanation. Maybe even a tad more.

Mud and I have somewhat of a love-hate relationship. The mud season heralds the coming of spring (and the end of freezing my patootie off feeding in the snow/wind/below-zero temps.) That’s the love part.

It also means every day at the pasture is a mucky, slippery, gooey, sticky adventure. That’s the hate part.

I’m not big on getting dirty, though I’ve expanded those boundaries a LOT with my horses.

The old sweeties aren’t too thrilled with mud these days either. Lately they’ve had to walk through a sucking mud pit just to get out the gate. They’ve been quite cautious and I don’t blame them.

The rest of the oldsters who line the fence to talk with me and eat the treats I hand out are also cautious.

Chickadee likes to avoid the mud as best she can, giving me her signature big-eyed, mournful expression. “Couldn’t you bring my treats into the enclosure? Pretty please with sugar on top?”

I’ve been known to comply. I’m a total sucker for mournful expressions.

Those of you who have animals, large or small will know exactly what I’m talking about.

Right?

Animals and mud just go together.

 

 

 

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