As the sunlight started to break over the cloudbank to our east this morning, the fog mushroomed up from the valley and enveloped us. Horton was a little jumpy during chores, so I decided to turn him loose in the arena to work out the kinks before riding him.

That was a non-event. This was as much action as I got when I shooed him away. He didn't want to run, or buck, or do anything but be with me. (To be completely honest, I doubt it had as much to do with me as it did that fragrant apple in my pocket!) So I let him "join up," gave him a bite of apple, and took him back to the barn to tack him up.

We had a fine ride; some lovely moments and no nasty ones. The saturated air that is fog left us damp, soaked Horton's little forelock, and decorated his eyelashes with tiny beads of moisture (which I couldn't capture).

After untacking and grooming him, I decided to trim Horton's bridle path and ears, just in case we get into that show on Sunday. He stood like a gentleman, and was rewarded with the other half of his apple.

And whadduya know. Within an hour or so of returning to the house, I got a call from the show secretary saying someone had scratched two Intro rides! I'll have to leave before dawn, but . . . "A'showing we will go; a'showing we will go. Hi-ho, the Hortie-O, a'showing we will go."