From where I sit on the blue feed bucket, Caprichosa's lips are jumbo marshmallows with spun sugar whiskers.

The mare rests her gooshy confection lips on the top of my head, my hair that's all messed up with the breeze anyway is now really going to get it. She sniffs and sniffs and sniffs and moves her top lip furiously back and forth and then takes a few good licks with her cotton candy pink tongue. I read somewhere that means the horse thinks she's taking care of you. When they lick you, that is. She does it all the time to my kids.

I stare at her knees and wonder what that means about her thinking of who's exactly where in the pecking order?

Toby looms behind me on the other side of the fence. As much of his head as he can squeeze through the rails is squeezed through. Head turned sideways soooooo pitiful. Top lip tucked in, wrinkled like cords of black licorice. He's saying that he's just a little bitty baby after all, big spoiled Boo ... it's killing him to be on the other side of the fence from all the action.

Teyla the appaloosa-horse-of-steel keeps her distance, but watches me like a hawk like she always does when she thinks I'm not looking, her head dropped down to my level now, ears pricked forward. She doesn't know it, but I can see every single polka dots on her caramel and strawberry and mocha lips.

My quarter horse, Pinon, lets her big bottom lip droop like a shovel. Or a scoop. The kind Willy Wonka would use to serve up everlasting gobstoppers or something equally delicious. Her I.Q. drops to nearly zero, on the surface that is. Never underestimate an opinionated horse named after a small brown nut.

The teacup muzzle of our resident royalty, Dennis' Arabian Morningstar, fits perfectly in the palm of my outstretched hand through the fence. Saltwater taffy.