Thursdays are Never Boring

We settle in to panel off the sides to the riding arena on Thursday.

My notion is that I can cut the boards and prop my leg up on the couch in between boards.  Good.

The dogs aren't keen on sharing.  Bad.
Meanwhile, out on the dirt road, hoodlums are looking for a house to burglarize. Bad.

 Our very own neighborhood policeman apprehends them.  Very good.
As the guys are about to finish the arena job in record time, I decide to come up with a diversion to waste their time:

Bad.
Bad dog.

He's supposed to be a pointer.  He should've pointed out the fact that on my journey around the burn pile there was a tractor tire in my way.  I know it's very immature of me to blame the dog for the effort spent cutting the tire in half to free it, but I am...
Bad mommy.
While I'm out alone with the dogs in the Boonies setting posts, Cole decides to spectacularly burst the cyst on his leg.  He can't have open wounds, he has zippo immunity.  Bad, bad dog.

I have complete first aid kits (splints, sutures, you name it) in both my vehicles, but not the farm truck.  Thankfully, there's toilet paper.  So, the dog with the mummy leg and the rest of the crew throw in the towel and hobble home--- to hide, where it's nice and safe from Murphy and his Law.