Author Archives: Whiskey Ranch-Horse

About Whiskey Ranch-Horse

I'm a hard(ly)-workin', hard-restin', hard-nappin', honest-as-the-day-is-long, bombproof, bucket-lovin', mostly retired palomino ranch horse from the heart of the American Southwest, now livin' the pet pleasure horse dream on the County Island. Oh, and I'm a horse, in case maybe you need it spelled out for ya. Name's Whiskey. It's a pleasure to meet y'all! Why don't you sit down for a spell and read some of my stories?

A Palo Verde PoeTree

Come to Whiskey, sweet buds!

Come to Whiskey, sweet buds!


Rabbits are brown, flowers are yella

I like when the wind knocks down more buds for this fella

Even though the sweet buds’ll likely make my whole horse-self itch

I’ll eat ‘em and my ess em zees, too, if I need ‘em, and try not to *****

‘Cause that ain’t good ranch horse manners


I been snarflin 'em up as fast as they drop. On account of I'm a hard-workin horse who don't quit 'til he gets the job done.

I been snarflin ‘em up as fast as they drop. On account of I’m a hard-workin horse who don’t quit ’til he gets the job done.


Leave a comment

Posted by on April 18, 2014 in Uncategorized


A Little to the Left

Oooohhhmmm, indeed, y'all.

Oooohhhmmm, indeed, y’all.


It ain’t practical to be touchy-feely. I learned that lesson early on at the ranch, that a workin horse should focus on the work at hoof, so to speak, and set the more squishy, sensitive stuff aside. But the County Island’s peculiar that way. With my own horse-eyes, I have seen touchy-feely stuff here that nearly defies description. Of course, I’ll describe it anyhow.

Have ya ever seen a horse wrapped all up in “magnets”? Or made to stand under a funny li’l steel pipe contraption that’s called a “pyramid”? Or fed drops of “flower essence” upon his tongue? Well — that one I’d probably like, supposin they was drops of sweet yellow palo verde flower essences. Or outfitted with “hoof boots” instead of proper horse shoes?

Horse help me, that one may even seem the strangest to me. If you’re gonna go barefoot, like I do, then ya ought to go barefoot. And if ya need shoes, ya ought to wear horse shoes. There’s a whole other sort of bat-shit, pardon my french, crazy — over hoof boots and bein barefoot, like the people all suddenly just invented it for us horses themselves, like we ain’t been walkin around with bare hooves for as far back as any horse can think, and we can think back purty far. And if ya go barefoot, they say ya need a boot. But that ain’t neither barefoot nor shod. That’d more properly be called bootfoot, and that’d be ridiculous on account of there ain’t no such thing, plus I ain’t never seen a bootfoot horse that don’t look partially ashamed of his own condition. And it’s as if these new-fangled farriers that call themselves “natural hoof care trimmers” think they done invented their own extra special kind of touchy-feely hoof mojo that only they can perform upon a horse, and for an extra big money-fee — money our people could better be spendin on such things as more alfalfa for us.

Point is, when the lady came over to our own little horse-corral to “massage” Original Coors that time, I about snorted all my own sarcastic horse-snorts out when she lit what’s called a wrongful-smellin “healin incense candle” and got out the “healin herbs.” The only herb with which I’m familiar is loco weed, and no horse wants to get into that on purpose. I woulda guessed a massage must be a like a real good curry, but from the looks of things, I was wrong as usual about the County Island and its ways, as she set to massagin the healin herbs into her own people-hands before she laid ‘em on Coors’ neck.

I high-tailed it at a steady walk as far as I could go until I hit the fenceline, so as to stay out of the ordeal entirely. If our bucket gal had lost her mind to the loco weed, best to lay low and hope it eventually circled back.

But she came back for me with my halter and lead rope a while later, and said I was next to get “massaged.” And Original Coors was blinkin and yawnin like he was real relaxed and happy from the massagin, and also he didn’t look no more loco than usual. Neither did the bucket gal.

I let myself be tied with some trepidation near the massagin lady who smelled like probable loco weed, but since I’m a good horse, I didn’t fuss any more than to lay my ears slightly back and maybe wrinkle my nose from the smells that was waftin at it. A good horse minds his manners, even when his mind don’t want to. I squeezed my eyes shut and braced myself as she laid her loco weed people-hands upon me, tryin to maintain my both my dignity and my ranch manners. And then —

Oh, that felt alright. What was she doin right there, to my shoulder?

Ooohhhh… She done worked that tight spot right out of it…

But still, I wasn’t gonna go all googly-eyed about it like a colt in springtime.

But then I did go near as googly-eyed as that, when she got to my withers. I leaned into her loco-weed touch to tell her hey, maybe, since you’re right there anyhow, maybe a little higher… And then a little lower…

And I let out an enormous horse yawn, and another, and another, like I couldn’t stop yawnin to save my life. I think the bucket gal and the massagin lady laughed at that, but I couldn’t hardly hear ‘em for all my yawnin.

Why was horses and cows and such so danged scared of the loco weed? If this was it, I wanted some more.

I leaned politely into the lady again… Hey lady, since you’re here and all, if only ya could get a little more to the left…

And when she did, I might’ve fallen plump asleep. This loco weed massage was by far the most relaxin, peaceful thing a horse could ever imagine, I reckon, except maybe for fallin asleep in a field of soft, fresh grass under the warm sunshine. For those horses that ain’t never been massaged before, that’s exactly what it feels like.

And so the next time your person approaches you with some stinky candles and some loco weed, or maybe with a pyramid, or magnets, or even a pyramid made entirely of magnets, or even if they want to put your hoofboots on your ears for a change and call it good – I suppose you should give ‘em the benefit of the doubt and let ‘em.

What I done learned is that on the County Island, no matter how crazy a thing seems to your common horse sense, it can be crazy and also be all good to a horse all at the same time. And no, that ain’t the loco weed talkin. I ain’t never touched the stuff, though I reckon now the stuff’s surely touched me.

Leave a comment

Posted by on April 13, 2014 in Uncategorized


A Heart for Helpin Horses: New York City and Beyond

One of my good amigos inquired a couple or more bucket times ago as to what I think, as a horse myself, about the new sheriff of the New York City Ranch Town, who aims to get rid of all the good workin horses and take ‘em from the people that own ‘em and love ‘em and do horse only knows what with ‘em. But not all of ‘em – only the ones that got jobs pullin carriages, and not all the other ones that do police work. I also ain’t a horse to go lookin for trouble, but I find myself in a position now where I got to speak up on behalf of my city horse-cousins. If a horse can tell words and stories, sometimes he’s got to use his abilities for such a purpose. I don’t get up on my own high-horse self often, also on account of I’m only about 14.2 hands, but today I’m gonna be a bonafide high-horse.

First off, from what I heard, the mayor fella is all hat, no cowboy. Meanin he’s a real city slicker who ain’t got no idea what a actual horse needs.

What’s worse, I gather he also don’t care none. He ain’t got any interest in visitin the workin horses for himself nor listenin to the good people that work with those good horses to learn a thing or two straight from the horse’s mouth.

Another good cowboy, who I ain’t never met but I’d surely like to someday, called Mister Liam Neeson, has been goin around to all the ranches everywhere and speakin the truth on behalf of horses and the people that love ‘em and work side by side with ‘em every day. If a horse could wear a hat, I’d tip my own hat to Mister Neeson.

I ain’t never visited the New York City Ranch myself, on account of I gather it’s more than a day’s ride from the County Island plus a real long ride in the trailer, but our bucket gal and her carrot guy took a people-vacation there and sometimes I hear her tellin her friends all about how them workin carriage horses is all fine and dandy, same as all the workin police horses that got the same sort of care and livin arrangements.

To say that one’s got a hard job on account of pullin a carriage, but the other horse don’t is, pardon my french, bullshit, and as a retired workin ranch horse, I know my bullshit. Seems to me the mayor fella ought to high-tail it outa town before somebody sends a posse of police horses after him! And I know some police horses, too, personally.

Don’t he know if ya take 10 horsefolk and ask ‘em for an opinion, you’re likely to get 10 different answers? There ain’t nothin County Island folk, and I reckon New York City Ranch folk, too, like to argue more about than how to take care of a horse proper. Some folks say we ought to live in barns, some say we ought to roam free, but sometimes it’s up to us horses and what we’re used to, plus I’ve known plenty of horses to get hurt, colic, grow an ulcer that hurts their belly, and even die in a big purty field just as well as in a tidy inside stall-barn. Y’all can argue the details ‘til the cows come home, and I also know how long that can take.

But a horse who’s got a job, and regular meals, and a clean stall with other horses to talk to, and care for his hooves and his body, plus a bonafide vacation plan, too, is a lucky horse, indeed. Y’all can see one of the stables where the horses live right here.

I reckon what the sheriff and his so-called posse need to be educated on is how us horses live, day to day, not just in the New York City Ranch, but everyplace. It’s like they ain’t got a clue what’s normal livin conditions nor what’s even normal horse behavior. Do they know even the most prancified, high-falutin, what’s called “Olympic” level horses lives in box stalls, too?

There also ain’t no people who are gonna adopt, which is to say, take on responsibility for and feed, all the horses in the entire New York Ranch if he shuts the ranch down. When a ranch shuts down, it’s generally bad news for horses. Don’t he know about all the horses that are on the truck for Mexico and such? All the horses that’s gettin abandoned due to the risin cost of hay, maybe picked up by a horse rescue that’s already runnin lean if they’re lucky? I know it, first-hoof!

And there’s some more y’all can read about right here. It’s happenin to horses everywhere. These here are some of my ranch-horse cousins.

Historic California Drought Forces Rancher to Thin His Herd of Horses

Y’all will be wantin to go forth and help the horses that is bein starved and neglected and abused, not the ones that are looked after proper but all ya got to argue about is if their stalls should be a people-foot wider or not, or if they should get out in turnout pens all the time or not. That’s just splittin horse-hairs.

How come the New York City ranch mayor-sheriff and his posse don’t speak up and ask all the people who got such a deep sense of concern for the horses to go on and help all the starvin and abused horses that could really use a person’s help?

I’m glad they’re so many folks who got good hearts and want to help us horses. I rightly am. And here’s lots of horses out there who could use your help. But these ain’t the horses y’all are lookin’ for. Y’all are bein used by what’s called politicians and bureaucrats, which are dreadful and untrustworthy kinds of people. Let me show y’all how to help, for real.

This is merely a few of the many good places where ya can truthfully help a horse in need. If ya know of others, kindly recommend ‘em to me, thanks kindly. There’s plenty of ‘em near your own people-barns wherever ya live that could use some good, local help from people like y’all who care.

Blue Star Equiculture –

Arizona Equine Rescue Organization, Inc. (AERO) –

Day’s End Farm Horse Rescue -


Please, kind folks, and please, mister mayor-sheriff of the New York City Ranch, if you got good hearts to help animals, and especially us horses, go help the ones who need all of y’all and leave those of us that’s doin fine alone to be happy and healthy in our work. Listen to Mister Neeson, ‘cause he’s got the most horse sense I’ve heard in this whole deal. Every horse would appreciate it from the bottom of his feed pan. I mean heart. Well, truth to tell, it’s kinda the same thing for us horses. We all got that in common.

Why Don’tcha Go and Visit the Famous Horse-Drawn Carriages of New York?

And Why Don’tcha Also Go Meet Roger the NYC Carriage Horse?


Posted by on March 16, 2014 in Uncategorized


Our Own Li’l Ghost Town

Welcome to our own li'l ghost town on the County Island.

Welcome to our own li’l ghost town on the County Island.

Once upon a County Island time, I hear tell there came a critter, or I reckon it’s a critter ‘cause I don’t know what else it’d be, called “the economy” that bolted and crashed through a whole lot of ranches and even people-barns, and then it fell down exactly like a big ol’ draft horse does when it comes upon the best place to drop and roll – with a thud that likely echoed even beyond the whole, entire County Island.

And the main thing the big ol’ economy left behind after it done dropped and rolled, and left for good, for I reckon whatever parts an economy goes to, was the County Island’s very own bonafide ghost town. It’s the sort of place ya either already know exists, or ya don’t, and the best way to find it is to find it for your own self. If I told ya where it was, I’d have to kick ya, as the sayin goes.

I ain’t a horse who spooks easy, and there also ain’t no such thing as ghosts for real other than the ghosts between some horses’ own ears. Truth to tell, it’s kinda fun to go for a walk through the empty streets of the County Island’s ghost town, in a pointless kinda fun way, like most things around here.

The ghost town was supposed to have a high-falutin equestrian (which means horse) facility and also plots of land for the people to stake their own people-barns and tiny ranches on, attached to the equestrian facility, so I’ve heard. But the economy came and flattened it all out long before even the first high-falutin equestrian horse moved in, and not even one people-barn got built even though a lot of busy people with County Island people-jobs already built the roads and the walls and the horse trail that was to go around it in a circle and got the town all set up and ready.

The only horses that live there at present is the two giant frozen statue ones out front, a big ol’ mare and her foal, stuck in time mid-gallop, like they had enough sense to try to run from the place.

A statue horse is like a real horse, only it’s made from a made-up people-thing called “bronze.” And it can spook a horse who ain’t prepared to meet a frozen bronze horse. But they ain’t nothin to be scared of, on account of they likely ain’t goin nowhere, havin not moved for at least the six people-years that I can count. Also, I ain’t never heard of another horse bein froze and turned into bronze by bein made to walk calmly past ‘em, so y’all and your own good horses ain’t go nothin to worry about as regards that.

Now the ghost town’s home to all the critters it was meant to keep out when the people and their fancy horses moved in – the bobcats, and the coyotes, and the regular birds and the quail-birds, and of course the javelinas, and all the snakes with rattles and without rattles, and all kinds of County Island rabbits from the little ones with cotton tails like I got surroundin my bucket each night, to the great big jackrabbits like the kind we go out to look for and admire with the hunt club. It’s chock full of critters.

It ain’t got tumbleweeds, as far as I can tell, but it seems like it could use some.

I thought maybe y’all would care to come along for a li’l County Island ghost town tour with me.

This here’s where the equestrian barns and prancin arenas and such was meant to be. Now it’s all ghost town empty.

I heard they supposedly built it all up, but then it got auctioned and sold off bit by bit. But that’s ridiculous. You can’t auction off barns and buildins and stuff the way you auction off us horses and livestock. That’d be ridiculous. So I don’t know for sure where it went, but I’m purty certain it wasn’t auctioned.

And this here’s the ghost town park that never was.

It was meant to be a gatherin place in the ghost town center, where the people could sit around and enjoy the grass, and who knows, maybe even their good equestrian horses could graze. It did have a tie rail for horses, too, but it’s gone now. It’s still right green and purty, as far as green and purty go on the County Island, even bein abandoned and such.

There’s still a few traces of horses here and there, such as these horse shoes that done got frozen into the pavement by the street. I try my best not to wonder in general, but I got to wonder where the actual horses went that left their shoes behind. And also, I hope this particular horse’s horse-shoer man eventually got his feet balanced right, ’cause it looks like he had a tiny pony hoof on one side and a proper hoof on the other.

Mostly, me and the bucket gal like to walk around the streets of the ghost town and see what there ain’t there to see. I reckon all the County Island critters like to call it home for that reason, too – on account of all the stuff that ain’t there and hopefully never will be, or not for a real long time.


Posted by on March 9, 2014 in Uncategorized


Haltered State

County Island nights are mostly peaceful for me, Coors and Coors Light, out under the trees and the moon in our own little horse-corral, except for the occasional barkin of a dog, singin of a coyote, rumblin of a rumbly-car or any sort of rabbit ruckus. But there was a night when a steady stream of people-babble echoed and echoed all through the air around a horse’s sensitive ears, from the dusk time when we get our supper hay to long past the time when all the hay’s inside our bellies and our bucket gal comes out from the people-barn to feed us carrots and wish us a good night, which is called “bed check.”

The babble went as such.

“Bubida bubida bubida bubida HEY bubida bubida bubida FIFTEEN DO I HEAR FIFTEEN bubida bubida bubida…” And so forth.

The “bubida” parts was easy enough to ignore, but it was the HEYs that kept prickin my own ears, mostly on account of there was a man yellin HAY, but still. Nobody brought us no hay at all, no matter how many times he called out for the hay.

I raised my head in the general direction of all the commotion, and indicated to my horse compadres that it reminded me of the sounds of a ranch auction, only ranch auctions was held durin proper daylight hours and without so much whoop-dee-do. I should know, as I’d been run through enough of ‘em before my hooves landed here. Also, as far as I know, there ain’t not even one proper ranch that falls within my earshot on the whole, entire County Island, so surely it wasn’t a ranch horse auction.

Coors and Coors Light pricked their Ayrab-horse ears, too, and then they gave each other the Ayrab hairy eyeball and shook their heads and blew through their nostrils. Coors Light said it was a Ayrab halter horse auction. I reckon if anyhorse would know if a thing pertained to Ayrabs, it’d be a pair of Ayrabs.

But a halter horse auction? That’d be ridiculous. Even for Ayrabs.

Every horse has got a halter. The one I got now’s black with some kinda brown and colory design thing on it but it’s all grown kinda dirty and worn-like on account of bein a useful thing, which there ain’t no shame in, not for a halter nor the horse it’s on. And there ain’t nothin special nor useful about your ability to have your halter strapped around your head, much less to get a bunch of people to prattle on and on about ya all danged night long at an auction and be yellin HAY at ya all night.

Then there came more HAYs, and some SOLDs, and then a whole heck of a lot more bubida bubidas, and loud, echoey people-music to the point where it even drowned out the coyote chorus, or maybe it done scared off all the coyotes and other night critters, and then as suddenly as it all started, it stopped, and blessedly, finally all the noise was gone. But the scared-off night critters never did come back that night. I’d a been scared off, myself, if I wasn’t stuck inside the confines of the corral. And I still can’t hardly believe the Coors brothers knew what they was talkin about, no matter how much conviction they put into their snortin about it.

The next time I get rode along the County Island trail that goes past the spread where they keep all the fanciest, spindliest Ayrabs, which ain’t nothin like the two furry, fat fellas I’m stuck with, I plan to ask whichever horse is turned out in the turnout pen if he’s ever heard of a halter horse or a halter auction. I’d bet my own bucket on it there ain’t no such thing at all.

Leave a comment

Posted by on February 25, 2014 in Uncategorized


Piggish Behavior

When you come across a sleepin javelina, it’s always best to let it lie, lest it come back to bite you, literally. Those pigs are grumpy, most especially if ya call ’em pigs to their ugly pig faces. And they have lots of sharp and pointy teeth they ain’t shy about snappin at any part of a horse they can snap at. That’s why, when I spied a kinda grey, javelina-shaped big ol’ lumpy thing in the middle of the trail one time, I had to give it kind of a balk, by way of side-steppin to the farthest way around it. And it smelled foul and piggish, too, in my honest defense.

Now, I’m a horse who does things for good reason, even if the reason ain’t always apparent to a County Island person who ain’t so attuned to a ranch horse’s thoughts. If y’all should ever make my acquaintance and find yourself askin me, “Really, Whiskey?” like the bucket gal did that day, you might want to bear that in mind.

Turns out, it was a pile of fresh cement somebody dumped a load of along the trail — that day. Next time, it could be an actual javelina. Which was why I voted to give it a pass, castin my vote for the sensibleness.

We also shoulda given the dumpster beer a pass, but we didn’t. And exactly like a javelina that’s been startled from its sleep, that beer came back to bite me. Well, mostly. The point is, if you come across a thing that you don’t know what it is, but you think it could maybe be a bad thing, if you’ve got a lick of horse sense in you at all, you should always err on the side of bad and leave it be. It’s the sensible horse thing to do.

Dumpster beer, in case y’all may not know, is beer that’s found atop the closed lid of a person’s horse-manure dumpster by the side of the road. It’s kinda specific. And it does pertain to talk about javelinas.

We found it — the dumpster beer, I mean — when we came back from barely avoidin fallin on top of the big, lumpy wet cement javelina pig. It was already that kind of a day. I was so astounded by it — the beer — I aimed both my ears forward, at the same time. And then, I could hardly believe my own eyes.

Coors Light?

It was a big ol’ box-thing, and the whole, entire box smelled like bad beer, gone stale, to a horse, and in big people-letters it was wrote, right there, and as plain as the patch of missin hair in the middle of Original Coors’ nose — “Coors Light.”

I supposed the top of the horse-manure dumpster was a good enough place for a case of Coors Light.

And there I woulda left it. But the bucket gal laughed and ended up makin an entire to-do about it. There ain’t nothin funny as far as I can see — and I can see purty far — about somebody leavin us a case of Coors Light on top of the horse-manure dumpster out in front of our little ranch, when we got a horse here called Coors Light, and everybody knows what I think of Coors Light, the beer, well, and the horse too. What’d be funny about that?

Seems there was nothin wrong with the beer at all (other than it bein Coors Light, which was wrong enough for me). And for some reason, it was also “funny” if we was to go back to our own little horse-corral, and spend a whole lotta time tryin to make me, Original Coors and even Coors Light try to drink Coors Light. Time that shoulda been spent chewin on my supper hay instead of bein forced to sniff at that swill. Not to mention, Coors Light drinkin Coors Light seemed somehow entirely wrong, kinda cannibalistic-like, like the way pigs get sometimes.

I near wished I coulda sniffed a javelina instead of a Coors Light. That encounter woulda been quick and painless.

As it turned out, Coors Light didn’t like Coors Light. In fact, he sniffed it with great trepidation and some disgust, which made me think maybe he’s got some horse sense, after all.

Original Coors thought Coors Light was just OK. He tried some at first, then that was enough Coors Light for him, and he walked off.



It wasn’t half bad. Well, that means half of it was bad.

It was beer, and I like beer. Yeah, so I tried some Coors Light. And then I tried it again, to be sure, slurpin it with great politeness from the bucket gal’s hand. But then I craned my neck high into the air and I curled up my nose and my upper lip, to tell the bucket gal exactly what I thought of Coors Light, and she laughed at me and agreed that was enough of that for all of us.

I’d had my fill of it, and I wasn’t gonna fill myself up on some Coors Light swill just because it was there and it was beer. After all, I ain’t no pig.

I reckon the Coors Light went back into the horse-manure dumpster where it belonged, just like I reckon some County Island person eventually tossed out all the lumpy javelina-shaped cement pile we’d encountered on the trail, ‘cause I never saw it again, neither. Unless, like I like to tell any horse that’ll listen, it really was a javelina, and it’s still out there on the County Island, somewhere.

Leave a comment

Posted by on February 13, 2014 in Uncategorized


The Rabbit Runaround

Ready to round up some bad beagle-dogs at dawn, County Island "hunt club"-style.

Ready to round up some bad beagle-dogs at dawn, County Island “hunt club”-style.

She said we were huntin rabbits.

I heard the bucket gal say it, with my own horse-ears, to some County Island lady that was new to ridin out with us at the hunt club – which, if y’all have been payin any type of attention to my horse-story tellin at all, ya already know is when we help round up bad beagle dogs in the desert by yellin such nonsense words after ’em as “Hark!” and “Tally ho!”

It seemed downright suspect to me, that anybody was huntin rabbits, but I ain’t a horse to argue, in general. So, I blinked and gave the new County Island lady’s good horse a sideways look, and then shook my head at him like maybe the gnats was botherin my ears, but they wasn’t. Nonsense rabbit talk was botherin me.

It’d been a long time, like maybe at least a couple cold times and a couple hot times, or maybe more, since I’d been rode out with the hunt club. But I was purty sure I knew the drill. It didn’t make sense that they’d changed it up since my last participation. We never hunted rabbits nor anythin else, as far as a horse could tell.

There was always another big group of mostly tall, entirely fast horses that galloped ahead to try to stay with the escaped beagle-dogs, which is called “hounds” though those ain’t hound dogs, and I know hound dogs. And then there was us, the more relaxed herd, moseyin along behind and mostly walkin or joggin, sometimes maybe lopin but not for long, and spendin a lot of time standin up on hilltops, and observin the escaped beagle-dogs. Also standin up on hilltops bein lost and wonderin where everybody else went, more than once. I already told about that, here.

Right then, I spied a big ol’ jack of a rabbit. And so did my bucket gal.

“Oooh, tally ho!” she exclaimed.

And then the others saw it, too, hoppin happily away into the creosote brush with its big ol pointy black-tip ears, like it didn’t have a care in the whole wide rabbit world.




“How beautiful!”

— all our riders said.

And we kept ridin on.

Nobody drew a bead on that rabbit, which is to say, for those of y’all that ain’t ranch-raised like I was and ain’t acquainted with the lingo, nobody shot the rabbit. Nobody even tried.

Frankly, I don’t think anybody’s even got a gun brought along with ’em in their saddle bags when we round up the beagle-dogs. I ain’t never heard ’em fire a shot, neither. Sometimes we do see real hunters walkin around on foot, huntin quail-birds. They got shotguns. Mostly, our folks seem to pack stuff nobody needs, such as a foul-smellin water that I call the “peppermint snots,” or “schnapps,” I reckon, and eye-telephones that can look at rabbits to shoot a picture of ’em or tell a person how far and long we’ve been out ridin, when a horse already know that.

If the runaway bad beagle-dogs was truthfully hounds, maybe some kinda mixed-up County Island hounds, and if they was truly sniffin and trackin after rabbits, how come they never caught a rabbit?

These were my own horse-thoughts as we wandered across the plain, plainly not goin nowhere in particular and even more plainly not huntin rabbits.

And, if the beagle-hounds was meant to be huntin dogs and they ain’t never caught one, how come they don’t get sold on down the dog-road and replaced with actual dogs that hunt?

Further, a pack of bayin, barkin beagles and a bunch of Tally-Ho’in, horn-blowin gallopin riders and horses ain’t no proper way to track a rabbit. They make too danged much noise.

My opinion of the entire deal got validated yet again when we finally rounded up the dogs and made our way back to the trailhead. Every time we go on a hunt club ride, the people make a big ol’ County Island production out of havin somethin to eat after, like they ain’t ate in days. Everybody brings a people-food to share, while us horses get to crunch on some carrots and apples and the rest of the breakfast hay we got yanked away from to go round up the dogs.

And there is never, ever any fresh cooked rabbit. Forthwith, they didn’t catch any, nor did they set out to, nor does anybody care that nobody even bagged a one, nor did anybody bother to ask the quail huntin men who possessed actual shotguns if maybe they could help catch a rabbit for ’em, no matter how many they caught sight of and thought was purty — nor does hunt clubbin have anythin to do at all with rabbits.

I’m startin to think the whole thing’s one big runaround. Oh, it’s fun and all, in a pointless way. But it ain’t got a thing to do with rabbits.

At the end of the dog round-up, like always, nobody'd even bagged one rabbit, and the danged desert's full of 'em.

At the end of the dog round-up, like always, nobody’d even bagged one rabbit, and the danged desert’s full of ‘em.


Posted by on January 29, 2014 in Uncategorized


Prison Food

As part of the public service I like to think I provide to my fellow ranch horses and horses all around the County Island and beyond, as well as to their people, I’d like to take a moment out of my day to yell y’all about a terrible abomination that’s been inflicted upon me and my horse-buddies Original Coors and Coors Light, of which ya should be aware, so as not to inflict it upon your own good horses. Consider all yourselves forewarned.

What it is is a terrible thing the thwarts a horse from eatin his own hay the way he’d like to. It makes a horse pull his hay real slow-like up from these kinda jail bars that run all across it, like your very own food’s been thrown in the slammer and ya got to jail-break it out or else your belly could likely starve to death. And it likely takes all day to eat from the thing, too, forcin a horse to peck slowly at his hay like some kinda giant, addled chicken.

For the record, I ain't no chicken.

For the record, I ain’t no chicken.

With this confoundin hay box contraption, ya can’t throw your hay onto the ground at all! Ya furthermore can’t spread it all around in the dirt, like a horse likes to do! In fact, it seems to prevent a horse from eatin’ from the ground — on purpose!

Sorry for neighin so loud, but trust me, it’s a bad and awful thing that none of y’all should perpetuate upon your own good horses. I never saw the likes of it on the ranch. I also never heard no ranch horses tell tales about it, and y’all would think there’d be at least one horse-legend floatin around about such a thing if it existed on the ranch, so it’s got to be some kinda new-fangled County Island thing, which is to say, a bad thing for horses.

Not me nor Coors nor Coors Light can pull the jail bars off the hay at all, yet for some reason, our bucket gal can. Believe me, we’ve tried. When we tried to turn it over to dump the hay out, we got the whole entire thing turned upside down, and then all the hay stayed in and hardly none of it dumped out for us to freely eat.

And when we kicked it to maybe kick all the hay out, we just made a whole lotta noise kickin at the sides of it. We’ve tried draggin it around on the ground with our teeth, too. I think I done made my mouth and my neck sore in the process.

I overheard it also keeps a horse from ingestin rocks or sand into his belly, which can cause the colic real bad. But, that’s a insult! I don’t eat rocks nor sand, nor does any other horse I’ve ever known. It’s hurtful that any person would think such a thing, like we’re so addled we can’t tell a tiny bit of a pebble from a bit of bermuda hay?

The contraption’s also got some people-words kinda engraved upon it. I’d like to read ‘em off to ya now, so you’ll know what kind of feeder to NOT get for your own good horses, who surely deserve to fling their own hay all over. Did I mention how good us horses all are, and how badly we deserve to have our own hay free-choice, the way the good ranch hands intended for us to eat it?

Engraved upon the abominable contraption, it says this:

H  I  G  H

And then also C  O  U  N  T  R  Y

And that’s forthwith followed by a P  L  A  S  T  I  C  S.

Does that mean anythin’ to a person? It surely sounds like nonsense to me, but sometimes it’s the nonsense that can hurt an unsuspectin horse the most.

So, if a horse could make a review of such a thing in order for everybody and everyhorse to know about, this is all exactly what I’d make a review of it. In short, it’s the worst County Island people-made contraption I ever met. Well, except for this.

Free the hay. Feed the horses. That’s all I’m askin.

Leave a comment

Posted by on January 20, 2014 in Uncategorized


Buildin’ Better Mouse Traps

People got a sayin about how they need to go around buildin a better mouse trap all the time. Those are nonsense words to a horse, even a horse such as me. Seems to me they need to build better pesty pack rat traps, if there’s any kind of trap they need to improve upon, based on my own observations of the pack rat population in our very own hay shed. Mostly I think the trap gathers dust, while the pack rats gather everythin that ain’t nailed down.

But the point is, County Island people are always improvin upon things that don’t need a lick of improvement, mostly on account of County Island people ain’t got real jobs with real ranch work to tend to. So, they go around makin more work for everybody and everyhorse, so they can call a pointless thing a job well done and improve stuff – and call the thing “a better mouse trap,” if y’all will allow me to use my ironical horse ears to quote it…

My green bucket was a fine bucket.

It was my bucket – the one I got when I first came to live on the County Island. It shined a brilliant green, like sweet fresh grass after a big rain, and the bucket gal wrote my very own name upon it in big ol’ tall people-letters, back when she was just “the gal” to me and I reckoned she seemed nice and sincere and all, but I’d likely be on my way to someplace else without her soon, so best not to get too attached. That was also back when I had no knowledge of the importance of a bucket, and what goes inside it, to a horse.

But last night, the bucket gal took my bucket away, and never brought it back. In fact, all our buckets disappeared.

Coors Light’s banged-up green bucket, with the handle half tore off, went away, and in its place appeared a shiny bright blue kinda square bucket thing, stuck on the fence rail.

Original Coors’ sun-faded green bucket, with all his years of carefully caked-on bits of feed that no amount of forceful water-spray from the hose-sprayer could budge, on account of he’d smeared it on so good, went away, too, and in its place appeared a shiny bright green kinda square bucket thing stuck on the fence rail.

And my own green bucket – the first bucket I’d ever had in my entire horse-life – went away.

It was a good bucket.

It was green, and it had two decent cracks in it, one at the top that never bothered anybody, and one at the bottom of it, which often leaked out some of my feed. But that was a good thing, ‘cause the rabbits would hop on over and help themselves to whatever leaked down upon them, and it didn’t leak enough for me to miss the leaked parts. I’m a horse who’ll share, a bit. That’s how I met the bucket bunny to start with, who was the great-great-great etc. grand-bunny-dam to all the generations of bucket bunnies that’ve hopped forth since.

So, y’all know what appeared? A shiny bright yella kinda square bucket thing, stuck on the fence rail. It was different, and by different a horse generally means wrong, and it didn’t smell the same, but, well, it still had all my feed in it. That was the important part. The bucket gal told us that we was to be “color coordinated” from now on, and she said it like it was a good thing. I tried my best not to get all prancey about the change, inside my own horse-thoughts.

But the yella square bucket seemed impossible to fling around. Coors and Coors Light were havin a hell of a time, pardon my french, dislodging theirs to turn ‘em over and lick out all the best parts of their feed. It was like we was bein forced not to fling our buckets about like we liked to do, like on purpose, or somethin.

I like to flip my bucket around when I eat, so as to more efficiently get all the tiniest bits into my mouth. I got a number of what’s called advanced techniques I invented, such as bucket under the rail, bucket flipped onto the fence post, bucket sideways up against the wall, bucket banged and scraped against the wall, and so forth. With the new square yella fence bucket, all my techniques was, to borrow one of the Coors’ California words, “toast.”

That’s when I recalled how much County Island people enjoy buildin better mouse traps.

I bet myself I could make a mouse trap, which is to say, an improvement, out of my new square yella bucket, if I applied myself.

And so, I banged it, and I banged it, and I banged it some more. And the claw parts of it that were clawed onto the fence rail started to get loose, after a considerable long time of persistent bangin. I learned patience and persistence back at the ranch, y’know. What works for cattle and cowboys will work for most everythin.

Finally, I got ‘er done.

I greatly improved my new bucket. I’d done went and built myself a better mouse trap.

Now I could chow down with my nose closer to the ground, and I was free to kick at it if I wanted to, or turn it upside down, or sideways, or any which way I felt like it to properly clean out every morsel of feed.

My bucket. My rules.

Until my mouse trap done got trapped, itself.

It’s all fun and games ‘til somebody breaks out the stud chain, ain’t it?

Seems the mouse out-trapped me, this time.

1 Comment

Posted by on January 10, 2014 in Uncategorized


This Here’s the County Island People-Year Called 2013 in Review

Hey, everybody –

I’m told the “ stats helper monkeys” — whatever the hell those are, pardon my french — done went and prepared me a 2013 annual report for the County Island. Don’t that sound like an important thing for a person to know about? The followin words come straight from the helper monkeys’ mouth. Well, so to speak, I reckon…

Thanks, amigos, for comin to play with me, and for always usin your very best horse-manners around these parts, and readin about my County Island adventures both here and at the Facebook Ranch. Y’all all mean the world to me, and by world, I mean I love all of y’all maybe even as much as an old retired ranch horse can love both his bucket and his alfalfa. I never would’ve dreamed, back when i was a workin horse at the ranch, that a horse could make words, nor that people might enjoy readin ‘em. Livin here at the County Island has far exceeded a horse’s wildest dreams, and by dreams, I mean dreams about alfalfa, of course.

Kindest horse-regards,



Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 5,200 times in 2013. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Leave a comment

Posted by on December 31, 2013 in Uncategorized


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 36 other followers