Last week, we celebrated Ryon’s 9th birthday, which is around 32 years old in human years.  I baked a carrot cake with cream cheese icing, he blew out the candles, and then we jumped straight into a rousing game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey.  Which didn’t really happen.  In reality, we took a birthday trail ride and had a heated argument on the trail about a manhole cover, which I ended up winning because… well, I’m the boss and also the one wearing a pair of spurs.  Later, I poured a birthday beer into his dinner (if you’re on IG, you saw this happen) and we called it an early night.  Even though he loves people, Ryon’s a bit of a wallflower in a crowd and not really a fan of getting up in the club or turning down for what, etc etc.  Maybe next year he’ll feel a little braver and we’ll go to a country western bar and do some line dancing.

As the weather turns chilly, Ryon’s on the cusp of getting his fuzzy winter coat back; several of the horses already have theirs and look like woolen teddy bears.  Soon enough I’ll have to break out his big green blanket and his spandex tank top that he wears underneath (he hates that spandex thing).  I also ordered a lovely exercise rug for us to huddle under in the arena on those particularly cold days.  I’m sure he’ll love it flapping on his backside in the wind but better than a brisk breeze up the shorts.  I can’t believe he’s been with me for nine months already and that we’re about to come full circle with this boy.  The progress he’s made is pretty darn amazing, even though at times it seems like two steps forward one step back, and the number of compliments lavished upon him are neverending.  The most oft repeated phrase I hear coming out of my mouth is “Good boy Ryon, good boy.”