Miss Pepper was scheduled for a visit from our farrier on her birthday last week.
We always tell her she’s going in for a pedicure. Though technically I guess these days it would be a mani-pedi since she had all four of her feet done.
Between you and me, I’ve never liked the whole mani-pedi terminology. Maybe I’m too much of a wordsmith. I can’t bring myself to say anything except the whole words: manicure/pedicure.
Go ahead and call me a word nerd. I can take it.
So we had to reschedule the birthday appointment for a couple of days later.
I had her all ready, waiting for her spa treatment, and our farrier texted me that he was running late. (By the way, unlike some people we know, he is quite competent at texting. Not one silly word or glaring mistake.)
He was going to be really late as in almost two hours late so I bailed on that appointment.
We tried once more for this past Monday.
When I brought Pepper in she seemed a little jumpy. Then I realized it was the first time for her to do this without Bud.
Yikes, here we go with the seasons of loss thing again.
But after about a million nuggets of horse candy, she calmed down.
I told her that we human women also get pedicures.
Sometimes they serve wine and play soothing music. And we talk and giggle and pick out bright red nail polish and feel pampered.
It’s a treat.
She stared rather blankly at me, obviously not getting the whole pamper yourself vibe.
Then I started to view this experience from Miss P’s perspective.
A good looking cowboy in tight jeans, a big old silver belt buckle at his waist and wearing a black hat is tending to her every need.
He coos to her.
Calls her sweet nicknames.
“Work with me princess,” he says.
“Whenever you‘re ready,” was another of his famous lines. That silver-tongued devil!
He’d pat her and stroke her and ease her tired old legs up so he could trim those hooves.
He was taking good care of her. Really good care.
Seriously I think she was grooving on the attention.
And that’s when a lightbulb went off above my head.
Pepper was getting plenty of pampering without a drop of wine, no soothing music, and certainly no colored polish.
She had her own personal valet.
A cowboy at that.
I swear she was smiling like she knew something I didn’t know.
Now we may all have to start calling her “Princess.”
Hmm? Cowboys doing pedicures could be interesting.