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No, not as fun as the Beasties. But mercifully not to my living beastie. Cally is perfectly fine. However, my poor, wonderful YukonXL, which tows my trailer and has taken WBBF and Daisy and me to Cape Cod and Bar Harbor, was attacked in the night. Well, maybe not that dramatically, but definitely damaged.

Due to a whole lotta weird rules and regs at my condo, the Yuk is tagged as a “visitor” vehicle and has to move to a new spot every few days. When I parked it mid-week last week, I got what I considered a good spot, with a bit of shade from a tree at the fenceline in front of the vehicle, and a nice clear distance behind me for backing out. And it had a bit under half a tank of gas, depending how on the fuel guage felt like fluctuating. After a nice ride Sunday morning, then a Battle Royale with the chestnut diva about clipping her scratchesy hind legs, I headed over to quickly move the Yuk before doing productive but boring things like laundry.

Oddly, when I started the Yuk, the gas light came on and the guage was flat on E. Huh, I was pretty sure WBBF hadn’t driven it, because it was in the spot I parked it in, and he wouldn’t leave it like that, because he is WBBF. I didn’t have my wallet or anything on me, since I was literally just moving it from one side of the condo complex to the other, so I figured hey, I’d just go refill it Monday or whatever. Some asshole must have popped open the fuel tank cover and siphoned it out. Whatever, joke was on them, they didn’t get much.

I snagged another good spot–one of the wider diagonal ones under a tree–and hopped out to see and smell fluid leaking from under the vehicle, coming out of what I peered under it to see was a very clearly defined hole in what seemed, from the smell and the logistics on the vehicle, to be the gas tank. So not just assholes, but a whole profanity laced stream of epithets that I won’t use here, but rest assured that I mumbled as I was trying to see under the Yukon while not coating myself in gasoline. They hadn’t just stolen my gas, the effers had gone and hurt my poor sweet reliable Yukon! I pondered my options as I returned to my condo and texted WBBF, who was out sailing, and my brother, who lives a couple states away, but is a mechanic, and began googling “Yukon undercarriage schematics” to confirm my suspicions, while trying to figure out whether to call the police or insurance or what.

Little Bro confirmed my suspicions without even needing to see a picture of the poor leak, and gave me really good advice, which was to call my insurance first, and see what they recommended, and if I’d need a police report for them. So the good folks at State Farm were really helpful and took information for my agent to get back in touch with me in the morning, since it wasn’t an emergency, and see how it would be covered. Then I called the non-emergency police number, and learned that awesomely, in Fairfax County, you can actually file a report online for stuff like this, since really, it’s not like they’re actually going to come go all CSI on my 15 year old vehicle with a hole a missing gas. They get the report for their records, I get the report for my insurance, everyone wins. So I filled that out, and waited for WBBF to get home so we could go for a few drinks. I needed one, because poor Yukon.

You can see where the last of the gas leaked out of the old girl

I spent another hour on the phone with the insurance today, and it’s going to get towed off tomorrow for repairs. Hopefully she’ll come home good as new and ready to rock, so we can get to Dressage By Chance? and our new home at the beginning of August.

In preparation for that big move, I’ve started to slowly clean out my locker at the barn, realizing that I have accumulated a lot of stuff in there over the years that I don’t need every day. Or at all, really. There were 8 polo wraps in there, and I don’t even like using them. They got washed with some standing wraps tonight, to become the best argument ever against color coordination.

The horsewoman’s version of Tetris

Ugh, now I remember why I prefer boots, and why it’s taken me so long to wash all those standing wraps.

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