Nyah and I play that ridiculously silly slugbug game. You all know what it is--you have to be the first to yell the slugbug and color or else you get a swift punch to the arm from the person that beat you to it. It's almost a religion with us and Nyah is even considering a slugbug as her first car just so she can wake up every morning, new, and punch me in the arm and yell, "slug bug <insert color here>!"
About two weekends ago, Nyah and I were having a particularly sad day at the barn. We were saying goodbye to Sasha, a horse I've had for five years. She was going back to the rescue I got her from. We spent time bathing her and just letting her graze out in the warm sun until the trailer came to take her up north.
After loading her, she let out a deep, breathy nicker from the side window when I went around for one last goodbye. It broke my heart and as she drove away, I began to cry. Nyah followed suit.
We got into our truck and started the drive home. Just down the road, a slugbug drove by. Nyah, in a very subdued voice, announced from the backseat of the truck it's presence to which I was completely oblivious. This time, though, she didn't punch me.
Although I was still crying on the exterior, there was some semblance of a smile inside at our little connection. A silly game played to the chagrin of my husband helped Nyah and I deal a little bit better with the tinge-y sadness of goodbye.
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