Farrier was over this week.
You know, my 30-something bronzed New Zealand boy-toy.
And it was a hot day, so this was the first of the season he was back to his muscle tees.
Aptly named shirts, those.
After the business of trimming was behind us, he asked to borrow my hose so he could wash away the worst of the grime.
It was like a scene from something on Cinemax.
I told my children to run along upstairs and find a screen of some kind for a few minutes.
When he was all done washing down, we stood by his truck to pay and to schedule and to chat.
We talked dirty.
Dirty and nasty.
Dirty and nasty and stinky.
We chatted about poo.
That's right, poo.
The conversation ran the gamut from horse poo to dog poo to chicken poo, with the relative merits and detriments of each discussed in turn.
Only on a farm, people, only on a farm....
Image source: www.guttercleaningtips.com
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