The Undead

Anyone who's ever seen the sequel to any really popular slasher / zombie / vampire / chainsaw-wielding maniac / cave-dwelling mutant movie will recognize this scene:  Our Hero(ine), who nearly died at the end of the first movie while dispaching (in some dramatic way) The Really Bad Thing, is sitting in bed, late at night, watching TV and snuggling with The Love Interest.  Suddenly, there's a noise ... an eerily familiar noise ... Our Hero(ine) bolts upright, and The Really Bad Thing bursts into the room and proceeds to reduce The (Now Shrieking) Love Interest to bloody hash while Our Hero(ine) screams, "Ohmygod!  Why won't you just DIE?!"

I had that happen today.  Okay, so there was no Love Interest and no bloody hash and no screaming (though there was profanity), but ... Remember this saddle?  "It's ba-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ack ..."

... even more ragged and unsafe than before.  Both panels are still loose, but now the left front panel has lost the screw that held the upper corner on the tree, the stitching is broken and the panel's almost completely adrift:

Nice view of the panel foam (what's left of it).

And the other side's just as torn up:

  

I'm being stalked by The Undead.

Has this saddle been in use since I declared it dead almost two years ago?  I hope not, because this is a wreck waiting to happen.  It was awful back then, and it's worse now.  Perhaps I need to couch my diagnosis in stronger terms this time and hope my message gets through:  I won't be party to a horse and/or rider getting injured because I did a Dr. Frankenstein on this saddle.  I ought to shoot it with a silver bullet, cut off its billets, pound a stake through the seat, wrap it in a string of garlic, strew it with white roses, take it across running water and bury it at a crossroads.  Begone, demon, and follow me no more.