Rolling the Hay

Yesterday, Melody spent a lot of time gnawing on the round bale we put in the pasture last week.

This gourmet hay was made a couple weeks ago, and it was now cured enough to eat. The mares loved it—especially since the last two weeks of drought left them little grass to eat. This bale should have lasted at least a week. Imagine my surprise when I went out to feed this morning and not much was left of the it.

Did two old mares spend the whole night chowing down on the hay? Um, no. No doubt, under the light of the full moon, they decided to unroll the bale because, as any horse knows, the best part is in the middle. I know they did this because they left a tell-tale trail.

The trail started at the top and wound down the hill. . . 

. . . toward the kennel . . .

. . . and then turned left. . . 

. . . and ran  along the gravel at the bottom of the hill. . .

. . . and ended at the gate . . .

. . . where the prime suspect munched. Another suspect wasn't far away.

Melody: Hey! Why are you blaming me? Your evidence is purely circumstantial. Maybe the cats did it.

Meanwhile, just outside the gate, Twiggy claims the spare bale.

Twiggy: This bale is mine! All mine!

Spotz: Not so fast, Ma. I've had my eye on it for a while.

Spotz: Mine at last! Uh-oh. Sherman, what are you looking at? And what's Jim-Bob doing way back there?

Melody: See, I told you the cats did it.

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