A half-hour later, I have the mares unloaded, brushed out, and fed. The three-month-old foal flitted around the paddock, clumsy, his long legs not wired a hundred percent yet. He stumbled once, fell down on his face, and popped back up with a “who the hell just pushed me?” expression. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
“What’s so funny?” Sean’s voice, sounding stronger.
“Foals always crack my s**t up.” As if to prove my point, the foal leaped straight into the air, kicked out with his rear legs, then took off at a run.
Sean smiled. “He’s cute as shit.”
“They’re all cute. Even the ugly ones.”
“How can a horse be ugly? They always look beautiful to me.”
“You work horses?”
“Naw. I grew up in Detroit.”
Sean stood next to me and the clean scent of Dial soap hit my nose. He’d shampo
