When I found out my parents had created a trust fund for me, I was shocked. Out of the blue, I received a letter from an attorney stipulating what I had to do to receive the funds in the fund. Mainly, keep a job for one full year before I turned thirty.
My first mistake was telling my cousin, Penny, about the letter. She’s more like my sister since my aunt and uncle raised me, and I lived with Pen and her husband, Frank. She’d shifted into gear, scoured the want ads of all my horse magazines, sent out my resume, and came up with a doozy of a job for me.
Penny had sat one wide hip on the edge of the bed and flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder. “You have to do something, Vi,” she said. “You haven’t kept a job for more than a few months solid ever.”
She didn’t have to remind me. The breaks between had become longer. It was getting so I could hardly keep Cali in hay. If it weren’t for the tolerance of Penny and Frank, I’d have had to sell the nag.
“Penny,” I’d said. “I ride horses, fancy show horses, remember? The kind that jump really big jumps for really big money. I do not give trail rides.”
“It’ll be a nice break for you. All that competition is stressful.”
Stressful. Yeah, right. What was stressful was the owners. All they cared about was winning, not whether their horses were happy or healthy or even ready for the next level. Penny knew all about the blowup with my last client over his horse. He says he fired me, but I walked out because I wouldn’t make his horse do something that would get one or both of us hurt. And I don’t mean the owner.
Yeah, owners make me cranky. Join me on Monday for N is for Nicky.
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