Today was a red letter (or perhaps I should say yellow vest) day for Primo. Today Harry and he rode in a proper foxhunt. Well, I supposed technically speaking Primo was the only one that rode as Harry was in charge of carrying him.
I say it was a yellow vest day for Primo because his riding instructor was most insistent that he be wearing a canary yellow vest today as part of the required formal riding dress. Unfortunately she sprang this requirement on me with less than one week's notice. (She started out by asking Primo what colors of sweater vests he had in his wardrobe, to which he replied in a very cold tone, "I don't wear sweater vests.")
Guess where I came up with a yellow vest? That's right, my favorite store. It wasn't quite the right color -- more of a lemon, actually -- but, by God, it was a yellow vest that fit the kid, and the fact that it only cost $3 made it all the more perfect.
Here he is, modelling the yellow vest:
What's that you say? You can't see the yellow vest under his jacket? He was pretty pleased about that fact, although he did end up appreciating the extra layer given the chilly, windy weather. He will never, ever admit that the darn thing actually came in handy, while we all had the satisfaction of knowing that he was quite proper, even if no one could tell.
It actually was a cool thing to watch, at least at the beginning as they set out with the hounds.
After the initial excitement, though, it was a whole bunch of hurry up and wait. Actually, it was a whole bunch of take cell phone calls from the trainer about where they may possibly appear in the next ten minutes while driving over muddy unpaved roads in a more or less futile search for a random glimpse of them.
To give you an idea, here is the closest we got. Even this sighting was quite fortunate. I have helpfully marked out Primo and a hound for you. The only reason we knew it was our son was because he was on the tallest horse. That, and the fact that his vest was lemon yellow instead of the canary yellow that every one else was wearing.
We finally threw in the towel and headed back to the hunt club's headquarters to wait. Two and half hours after the hunt started, we saw the hounds coming down the road, a bit less enthusiastic than at the beginning.
Primo wasn't far behind.
You may not be able to see it, but that tight little grin on his face means -- in the world of a fourteen year old boy -- that he had really good time and he can't wait to go out again. I've gotten quite proficient at these sorts of translations lately.