“Don’t eat that apple! It’s the last one. And it’s for Belle.” I grab what’s left of the apple out of his hand and throw it in the bucket. I give him the “you should know by now” look.  All apples and carrots in this house belong to the princess.

And that grey, stringy stuff in the bucket? Beet pulp in mid-soak, of course.

Last Sunday, the grocery shopping list included the following:
--One giant container of corn oil
--25 lb bag of carrots
--Largest available size of molasses
--Largest available bag of apples

Belle went off her feed a few weeks ago. She wasn’t really sick—no fever, no colic—and she was perfectly happy to eat hay with her pals and graze. She showed no lack of energy, but she did have sharp teeth. We had the vet out, and he took care of her teeth, but for another couple of weeks she still would leave more than half her grain. Several people commented that she could stand to gain a hundred pounds or so.

And so began my quest to please the princess.  It started with simply adding a different grain to her usual pelleted food, but she rejected that. She ate the apples I put in the bucket but left the feed. First attempt at beet pulp was also rejected. Only after I’d stood in her stall for an hour, hand feeding her the stuff covered in molasses and with chunks of apples and carrots hidden within, did she deign to eat it.

And now, of course, there are two buckets in her stall. One for grain, the other for her “special mix.” Between the soaking and the cutting up of treats, the molasses and the stirring, I spend more time on my mare’s dinner than I do on my own. And heaven knows what will happen if I have to delegate the feeding chore to someone else—like if my poor, apple-deprived husband should want to go on vacation ever. The house-sitting instructions, which are already five pages long, will quadruple in length.

The good news is, she’s eating heartily again, both the beet pulp and the grain. In fact, last night she gave me that deep, low, nicker that signifies that “I’m hungry, so hurry up, darnit.” I serve at the will of her majesty. Have I mentioned her paisley bell boots?

So how do I change my behavior? Seems at this stage of life, when you’re middle-aged and pretty much okay with how life is turning out, you start focusing on the littler, more niggling habits. Forget “get my career in line” or “find a mate.” The question of the day is, “how can I make raking the hay barn a daily habit?”

Like folding the laundry (not a daily habit, as evidenced by the mountain of clean clothes on my dresser). Doing the dishes (okay, this is my husband’s chores). Mucking stalls (9 days out of 10). All those things happen daily (mostly). Why not the hay barn?

At some point, you just have to let it go. At 46, the chances of me starting a new habit are slim. I’m exactly the same weight I’ve been for the past 5 years, even though every year I swear I’m going to stop eating bad carbs and drop 10 pounds. So there you have it. I may never change the hay barn habit. I have to learn to except that. The zen of barn work.