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skeet, Those shoes for a Belgium were like dinner plates. We always rode them in from the fields and it was like straddling a large fuel tank. Such gentle horses. The last male I remember was "Pat". He would be sleeping on his feetin his stall on his and I would walk in and slap him on the butt. He would darn near fall over. Then if I walked in between him and his stall mate he would lean over and crush me into the other horse. After I punched him he would look back and turn me loose like it was a big mistake. Don't tell me they can't think and don't have a sense of humor. I loved him. When my father sold his last farm he gave Pat to another fellow that raised them and asked him to take care of him.
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