Toby, my 1,700-pound Percheron draft horse is laying on his side in the loose hay next to the round-bale feeder. His eyes are half closed. His whiskers, eyelashes, forelock, fuzzy ears, and mane are covered with hay. His big rump rises up out of the loose timothy grass like the Rock of Gibraltar from the tip of the Iberian Peninsula. His hooves are splayed out like the rocks upon which the harpies reputedly sing their songs, luring unsuspecting sailors to their doom.

And every now an then, the gigantic horse lifts his heavy head just enough to grab a mouthful or two of hay, before collapsing into the timothy again to savor each bite, munching slowly, slowly, slowly, beneath the warm winter afternoon sun.

Ah. It's a good life.