Barn friends
Recently in a conversation about life and things in general, someone said to me “but they’re only your barn friends, not your real friends”. I’m sure they didn’t mean to be rude or insulting, but it stopped that conversation in its tracks
I’d like to set the record straight. My barn friends are possibly the most real friends I’ve got. They understand me – we have common ground. We may be decades apart in age (and usually I’m the one on the older end of that equation) but they get me.
They are the kind of friends who, after knowing me for years, can still put up with my worrying about diet, weight, and aging – both mine and my horse’s.
They are the kind of friends who, after having known me only a few months, can give me a spontaneous hug when I am in tears about my poor horse’s abscessed foot.
They will soak my horse’s foot every day, so I only have to make the long drive to the barn once a day instead of twice.
They will understand how good it feels to me to work with my horse on the ground, and try to help me with my fears and celebrate the small steps I am taking to get back in the saddle.
They will borrow my fly spray and know it’s OK, and they will offer me anything I need that they may have – a saddle pad, hoof oil, bandages, an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on.
I do have other friends, away from the barn, and they are real friends, too.
But never think that my barn friends
