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The wonderful dry weather is, sad to say, accompanied by days that are getting noticeably shorter. After taking a hiatus from riding last week, due to ghastly sweaty heat even without a large horse in the equation, I took Doc out on the trails last night. The drought has left the paths very hard, so it's unkind to try for speed, but the woods are lovely dark and deep regardless of whether you're seeing them at a walk or a run. I should be working with him on cantering, but I selfishly want to take advantage of the park before it gets dark too early.

Doc remains suspicious of the deer, although his reactions to their spooks and gambols are more mild startles of irritation than complete rider-tossing freakouts. At this time of year, the stags are starting to notice the laydeez and have fits of boldness; the fawns, which have not outgrown their spots or adolescent skittishness, bounce around like ADD toddlers and further tweak his nerves. Fortunately for me, Doc is much calmer about dogs. We stopped and chatted with a passing hiker whose collie/Lab mix quivered with suppressed barks, but even when it burst into voice, Doc just flicked an ear.

I had cause to be very glad of his sang-froid, too, as we returned to the barn. The light was dimming and everything under the trees near the barn was leached of color, so when I saw a smallish creature moving I thought it was another one of the eedjit fawns. It was the wrong shape, though, and I peered harder. "Son of a bitch," I said, startled. Staring back at me, not 30 feet away, was a coyote. It stood for a moment and then walked further away, turned to look back, and then vanished into the trees. Doc sighed and gave me to understand that his dinner was waiting, so we clopped back to the barn. I couldn't stop grinning.

Now is the time on Sprockets when we try the shoulder-in

It's not clear why the massage place I go to when my back and hip gang up on me is increasingly staffed by Bulgarian supermasseuses, but don't look a gift Slav in the mouth: They're hard-core on deep tissue work, they give specific follow-up instructions (for me, that's usually something about working on my core strength and shoulders; once it was a command to drink van bir that efenink, for help me more releks and slip better), and they've got a strong PT background that's really helpful for dealing with imbalances or injuries. The downside is that their deep tissue work makes me feel as though I've been pummeled with rocks. Oh, and the bit about not being able to stay awake for two days afterward. What exactly the mystery toxins are that massage releases, requiring all that post-massage hydration, I do not know, but I feel like every molecule of tryptophan I've ever internalized is now gamboling freely through my bod.

Last night's dressage lesson was surprisingly bearable, in its usual humility-enforcing way. With the Smithsonian's Folklife Festival in town, Mother Nature always ramps up the heat and humidity, the better to curse anyone daring to wander the National Mall in the full summer sun for touristic purposes: "Come, see the treasures of Northern Ireland. Now leave our accurséd city and never return!" But we worked indoors and were fairly comfortable. I got a new partner, a round-bellied little Morgan who needs to be taken away from all this direct-reining nonsense and made into a happy barrels pony, and after some initial issues regarding my continued inability to steer with two hands (to paraphrase Eddie Izzard, "Two hands? No one can live at that speed!"), we did pretty well. I still give dreadful cues for leg- and shoulder-yields, but we managed to do some good straight lines, which are harder than they look, and the ponchik didn't misbehave at the other horses. He also put the finishing touches on unkinking my hip. Sometimes riding giveth pain, and sometimes it taketh pain away, and damned if I can figure out the reason for either one.