The Tree Fellers

The Tree Fellers blog photo


It’s a li’l early for County Island people to start festoonin their ranches with colored lights, mostly of red and green, and abominable inflated snow men and lighted deers that bob their heads up and down at us horses when we ride by and such, such as I told about before. But they are, for people-reasons I’m sure a horse is better off not knowin about. All the activity reminds me of an entirely true tale I heard one time related by a reputable cowboy upon the County Island. I been tryin to make sense of it ever since I first heard it. I figured maybe relatin it here might help. And if it don’t help, at least I got it off my own mind. It ain’t good for a good ranch horse to be carryin around questionable and partial thoughts inside his own mind. It leads to spookin and also balkin. And all of that leads to getting a spur stuck in your side.

Also, as I first heard it, it made no mention of a horse directly. But I’m sure there was at least one big horse involved, and likely a team of ‘em. Otherwise it makes less sense than it did to start with. So I’m puttin two big horses in it.

One time upon the far corners of the County Island, the reputable cowboy and his own brothers took not a rumbly-truck but instead a proper team of big, steady work horses into the woods to go huntin. They wasn’t huntin big game, nor even quail-birds, but trees. I reckon it’s similar to gettin a tag on an elk durin elk season, only with trees instead of elk. They went into the woods aimin to kill, bag and drag home the biggest, purtiest pine tree they could get, on account of durin the red and green lights time of year, County Island people kill big, purty pine trees and drag ‘em inside their own people-barns to dress up their branches with pointless decorations until the trees are dry and dead, which is called “holiday cheer.” I know it sounds ridiculous, but it seems to be a real thing. And of course the reputable cowboy and his personal posse needed good work horses to do it, on account of a rumbly-truck wouldn’t make sense to do a horse’s job.

Most of the time, County Island people go to great lengths keep trees alive, and do things with and to trees, such as I once told about here. But the red and green time of year is all about killin ‘em dead.

So off they went with their loggin team of horses to kill a tree, with a buzzy sharp-chain saw, on account of I guess that’s how a person kills a tree.

And also with beer.

And shotguns.

Brothers bein brothers is somethin that crosses all of what’s called the species. Meanin brother people and brother horses, such as Original Coors and Coors Light, is all the same with their real strong family bond, and also a whole lot of ear-pinnin and posturin and squealin and also tryin to one-up each other all the time.

So likely while the team of good big horses stood where they was whoaed, at the ready with their loggin wagon to haul off the biggest, purtiest pine tree in the woods, the brothers set to poppin a top or two and boastin of their tree-killin abilities.

One bet the other, over the top of their emptyin beer cans, he could fell the intended tree with his shotgun instead of the buzzy sharp-chain saw.

The other said somethin akin to, no you can not.

And another said somethin else akin to, hell no you can’t, but I surely can.

And yet another said somethin akin to, hey y’all, watch this!

And so on.

And the horses hitched to the loggin wagon likely exchanged a real long look.

Next thing the horses knew, the beer cans was all left crushed into the ground, and the shotgun shells was flyin. Bein well-broke, the horses barely budged.

And in a similar way, the biggest, purtiest pine tree barely budged, despite bein shot at more than several times.

More ammo was clearly called for.

The brothers all took aim at the biggest, purtiest pine tree, again and again, and again, until they’d near blown away its entire trunk and it keeled over and fell to the forest floor in a big puff of shotgun powder.

After they’d sobered up, shouldered the blasted tree onto the loggin-horse wagon and drug it home while their good big horses sighed, they caught hell from their wives, on account of apparently an important part of puttin a dead pine tree in your people-barn for the red and green light time of year is havin an intact tree trunk to stand it up with.

They didn’t have a leg to stand on amongst ‘em when they was pressed for an explanation for the exploded tree trunk, either. And the cowboy, whose house it was intended for, had to fashion a new trunk for it out of a giant hollow metal pipe so that they could stick the poor tree’s stump into it to stand it up to be festooned with holiday cheer. It was a real sad tree stuck with its blasted stump inside a metal pipe, droppin dead needles from day one despite its ornamentation.

That’s the entire tale. I gather it was meant to be humorous to a person. If anybody or anyhorse else cares to make heads or tails of it, best of luck to ya.

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Posted by on November 16, 2015 in Uncategorized


Devil in the Details

Some days, a good horse is damned if he does and damned if he don’t. Such was my thoughts as I took a nap like the steady ranch horse I am while the bucket gal was busy sprayin my tail with some kinda smelly red paint-spray, and also afixin what’s called red glitter — which I heard another wise ol’ horse say is the devil’s dust — to most parts of my hide, and also paintin up my own mane with red paint and devil’s dust, and addin flames to me to make me look like I was a devil on fire, I reckon, like a horse on fire’s a good thing. Glitter’s like the gritty sand when it blows across the plains of the County Island, except it’s real shiny and it blows across a whole horse and sticks there. Seems like every people-year when the air turns cool after the long hot time, I got to be the devil, with what’s called red devil horns affixed to my bridle, too, like I’m some sorta mad bull.

I make a real good devil.

Off I went to a pleasure ride, which for horses that don’t know is like goin out to do ranch work only without the ranch work part, where there was also many other good horses festooned with ribbony things, and beady things, and also glitter, and paint and what the people call “costumes,” which is sorta like when a prancey horse wears a tarp-blanket when he’s cold on account of bein sheep-sheared, only instead of keepin a horse warm, it makes a horse embarrassed and appears to make some people happy, mostly women-people.

I think I even entertained a proper rancher who came to the ride with a proper ranch horse in a proper stock trailer and pulled up beside us. He gave me a real long and sorrowful look and shook his head at me, but when I trained my devil-horned ears at him, he made as if to laugh. His horse started to pin an ear in my general direction, so I turned one eye at him to let him know I might be old and glittered, but this devil could still kick the snot out of him with one back hoof. If warranted.

Long pleasure rides warrant slow walkin, especially for devil-horses. Even the devil don’t like bein bedeviled by a bunch of fast-walkin horses kickin up clouds of dry dust. We’ll all get where we’re goin by the end of the trail, which ain’t no more than one big circle ‘til we get back to the trailers, anyhow. And on account of bein a slow devil, I met a real nice li’l devil.

Turns out we had a lot in common, both bein devils — albeit at opposite ends of the experience.

His voice was kinda creaky on account of it was changin from baby-colt to a proper stud’s talk. I hardly recognized him as a young stud at all, on account of his own good manners. Whatever ranch he came from, they’d done raised him up right.

And his whinny, when he made to whinny, also sounded like kinda a mouthful, and he asked me to kindly overlook it as he chewed on his bit, on account of he was losin some teeth.

“Well now, me too,” I told the li’l devil.

He also asked me to overlook how slow he walked, bein smaller than many of the other horses. Well, I am smaller, too, bein proper ranch-sized and all, and also when ya get to be old and wise like me, ya like to slow down so as to hear yourself think while you walk. So I told him walkin slow was the right idea for a devil-horse of any age or size.

Turns out li’l devils benefit from stickin close to old devils, and that we did as we moseyed through the brush and in and out of some of the dry creek beds, and also through one or two that had some water in ‘em. And it further turns out li’l devils can get scared of some things, such as scary-lookin dead trees, and the best way to pass ‘em is for the older, wiser devil to lead the li’l devil down the right road past ‘em. We made a real devilishly good team.

Except for my tail. Li’l Devil couldn’t stop tryin to sniff it and touch it with his nose … He said it was the strangest shade of sorrel he’d ever seen, bein all bright red and glittery like it was, and yet it was also downright purty, kinda temptin him to try to touch it in case maybe it was a best and brightest shiny red apple he’d ever seen. Oh, he still minded his manners, but he liked my shiny red-apple tail a lot, maybe a touch too much. I didn’t intend to tempt him, but I had to swish my own tail from time to time if it needed to be swished, thusly increasin the temptation.

That’s when it occurred to me why the people say that expression about tails and devils like they do, which I always thought was nonsense-words but which now made considerable sense, and which wisdom I wish to impart here — ‘cause, after all, the devil’s in the tails.


Posted by on November 4, 2015 in Uncategorized


The Face-Off

If you're the squeamish type, ya might want to turn around and take another trail right now.

If you’re the squeamish type, maybe ya might want to turn around and take another trail right now.

As an old and wise ranch horse, there ain’t much that spooks me no more, not even much about the County Island. There is one thing, and one person, though, that sets me to quiverin inside my own hoof prints, and makes my lower lip flip against my upper lip with dreadful anticipation of what’s to come. That one thing’s the deep, rumbly sound of one particular big, white rumbly-truck, and that person is one particular evil but sweet-talkin vet lady. And after I observed what she did to poor ol’ Coors Light that one time — and y’all know I don’t call him a poor horse ever, nor lightly — I know that any horse worth his salt block should most definitely keep himself at the farthest end of his pulled-tight-against-his-handler lead rope as he can muster without havin bad manners.

What she did was cut part of his own horse-face off.

Yeah, ya got that right. She cut part of his own horse-face off.

If you’re a squeamish type, you’d best turn back now and take another trail. This one’s about to get grisly. And I ain’t makin not one whiff of this stuff up. I saw it with my own wide eyes from beneath the palo verde tree at the farthest end of our own li’l horse-corral where I was makin like a tree myself to hide my own self from her knife.

It happened after she stuck us all in the neck with her sharp stick, like she does twice a people-year. First she stuck me, as I held my breath like I always do, and then she put the tickly round thing on both sides of my belly to listen to my breakfast rollin around inside my guts, and then she grabbed my own tongue and pulled it to the side, and pondered my teeth. When I got let go, I made a beeline for my tree. And then she proceeded to do the same to Coors and Coors Light. Only, then … she didn’t let Coors Light go.

Coors Light’s had a pestery lump of a thing on his face right by his lips that he eats with since the hot time, which is properly called summer, but he said it don’t bother him none. It itches, he scratches it, it kinds peels and breaks apart, and thusly it don’t itch no more. Well, until the flies get at it again. But then he itches, it busts open, it feels better, and so forth. If it gets to feelin kinda gooey and bloody, he wipes it off on his foreleg, or on the fence, or on a tree, or one time on his own brother Original Coors’ butt. Point bein, Coors Light says the lump ain’t a big deal as far as he’s concerned. He can chew and eat fine. It don’t even concern him when he’s wearin his bit and bein rode. But what concerns a horse and what concerns a County Island person ain’t always the same thing. And the bucket gal spent far too much time fussin at it with the pink goo she thinks’ll keep the flies off of us when we got scratches and bites, callin it a sore which I guess is on account of it made her feel sore and mad at it.

It was a tiny, pointy knife the vet lady aimed at Coors Light’s own sore lump. I saw him get real sleepy and droopy-eyed, like I often feel out of the clear blue sky when the vet lady’s around. And then, with our own bucket gal standin right there watchin but not liftin a hand to stop her, the sweet-talkin but evil vet lady wielded her tiny knife and cut – no, she carved – the lump out. No, she whittled it out of his horse-face. Like it was a good thing. Talkin, with happy people-talk, about how much better it might look now, and feel now (when I knew all along Coors Light said it felt perfectly fine almost all the time).

I ain’t got to describe the details. But they involved fly bits which is called “lar-va” and also blood and pus and even more drippy blood and bits. And then the lump from his face fell plumb to the ground and there was no more face lump to be found on Coors Light. And the flies landed all over the lump on the ground while Coors Light wobbled on his legs with half-closed eyes, droolin horse drool and also bright red bloody drool that finally stopped drippin drooly blood after a real long while.

I’m real glad to spare ya the details.

Coors Light never knew what hit him.

At feedin time a while later, when he was overly bright-eyed again, I asked him how his mouth was feelin, and he said fine, and also he said, hey, the lumpy thing’s all gone. And I said, yeah, it is, and I told him and Original Coors exactly how it happened, only worse than what I done told here. And they, bein Ayrab horses, told me I was makin it up, on account of Ayrab horses make things up a lot therefore they always suspect other horses do likewise. They said they never seen no vet lady do such a thing, not even back at the California ranch where they was raised, where vet ladies fussed at horses, especially prancey horses, all the damned time even worse than they do on the County Island, if ya can believe that.

But now I know the depths of vicious savagery our own vet lady’s capable of, and to which our own bucket gal’s willin to be a party. I ain’t real sure what a good ranch horse can do about it, but I got knowlegde of it, and no horse can unknow a bad thing once he knows it.

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Posted by on October 21, 2015 in Uncategorized


An Obvious Tail

Point one: I got no real bite to speak of. And I don’t ever bark. I likely wouldn’t even know how if I tried, which would be ridiculous.

Point two: I got four hooves, and a mane, and a tail, and a long forelock. Also, I got a horse nose, and horse ears, and a general horse face.

Point three: I eat hay, and grain, and carrots, like a horse.

Thusly: I am, in fact, a horse. But sometimes on the County Island, seems like a horse has got to state what woulda been obvious back when he was a workin ranch horse.

One time the bucket gal was leadin me home at the end of a long ride, like she does sometimes instead of ridin me all the way to our own li’l horse-corral gate. I don’t know why she does it, but sometimes she swings out of the saddle when we’re nearly home and walks me the rest of the way, I suppose for people-reasons that don’t matter to horses. We was walkin along the side of the big road in such a manner, when a tiny rumbly-car pulled up alongside us and slowed down, and the man inside the rumbly-car said loudly, “You’re supposed to WALK a DOG and RIDE a HORSE!” He said it like he said the funniest thing in the whole entire world. He also wore his hair in a long and proper pony tail, which struck me as downright silly for a man-person, mainly for a person and not a horse, or a bucket gal.

Before I could even flatten one ear in his general direction, the bucket gal shot back, “You mean this” — and she pointed directly at me — “isn’t a dog?” And the rumbly-car man kinda laughed, and kinda stared at us, and then he and the rumbly-car rumbled away.

And then it hit me, like a hard hailstorm outa nowhere when the sun’s still shinin bright in the sky and you trot toward the nearest trees for cover.

Does the bucket gal think I’m a real big dog? And also, would it be so bad for a horse if she did? County Island dogs is nothin but a bunch of pampered pets. So are most of the horses. Maybe it’s on account of the people don’t know we’re actually horses that can handle doin horse things instead of pet dog-like things?

Therefore, point four: I’m willin to be a dog.

And point five: Mind you, I’m not proclaimin I AM a dog. I’m merely sayin I remain open to a dog option if that’s what makes for happy horses and people here on the County Island.

Point six: I know how to bite, although I don’t use my bite because that’s still bad ranch manners whether you’re dog or horse, unless I aim to bite Coors or Coors Light for good reason.

Point seven: I’m already “leash”-broke, and I’m far more house-broke, or stall-broke, than either Coors or Coors Light when it comes to keepin my beddin neat.

Thusly: I reckon I’m already one damned fine dog, even considerin I’m still a lot more hoof than woof.

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Posted by on October 13, 2015 in Uncategorized


On Ice

What would possibly possess a person to give an old, toothless horse a block of ice to eat? I ask on account of it happened to me, and also to Original Coors and Coors Light, one real sweaty day on the County Island durin the highest heat of the long hot time. And, well, I suppose I ain’t entirely toothless, but I got a few teeth that’s vamoosed entirely from their proper place in my own mouth, and there’s some more that seem downright questionable, but that ain’t the point. The point’s a hard one to make, and likely involves a person’s heart froze as cold as ice.

We was snoozin and swishin flies in the shade in the middle of the day, when the bucket gal emerged from the people-barn, with buckets, which is real crucial to the crux of the thing, namely: day buckets? Well, alright then. And she rattled the buckets to make a real promisin rattlin feed-sound. We didn’t quite come out from the shade, but she appeared to be bringin them to us, which seemed sensible for stayin out of the sun burnin hot like the farrier’s forge.

Original Coors made his worst mare-face at Coors Light, and Coors Light grumped right back at him and kicked out at nothin on principle with one hind foot, which made Original Coors stomp a front foot and shake his head. Me, I pricked my ears at the happy surprise of a day bucket. And thus, the bucket gal set my bucket before my own hooves first and let the Coorses sort out their family squabble. And I plunged my own head deep into my bucket, mouth opened wide to chow down on those sweet pellets of feed — and damned near froze my tongue on somethin solid. So I took a bite, and I damned near broke a tooth. What the…?

What kinda person gives a horse a block of ice to eat on a real hot day?

What kinda person gives a horse a block of ice to eat?

Coors and Coors Light was in a similar situation with their own buckets. With more stompin and ear-pinnin, they traded places back and forth before finally decidin they each had a ice berg (which is what the people call it when the water troughs get froze solid in the cold time – a ice “berg,” which is a nonsense word) of their own.

I cocked my head to have a proper look at the ice berg in my bucket. It was carrots, lots and lots of tiny bites of ‘em, froze into a block bigger than a whole apple. But, why?

I tried to take a smaller bite, which at least allowed me to grab hold of the carrot ice berg. And I licked it with the length of my tongue. Lick, bite, lick, lick, bite, bite… Slowly, eventually, thusly I seemed to be makin some meltin progress.

Carrot ice

Carrot ice “berg,” berg bein a made-up people-word

When I was able to grab hold of the whole thing with my teeth, I tried smashin it against the side of the bucket to maybe smash the carrots out of it, but that was no more good than hoof-stompin or ear-pinnin. Then again, maybe it was. So I grabbed it and smashed it some more. Meanwhile, Coors Light was havin better luck smashin his, and meltin it into slurpy li’l puddles of carrot water. So, that’s how the carrot ice berg was to be broke. Smash, lick, bite, smash, lick, bite into a cold, crunchy CARROT.

It kept us occupied for a real long time right there in the shade, with all the smashin, lickin, bitin and slurpin. And also I’d like to beg your pardon for the indelicate wordage herewith if you’re accustomed to a horse that eats in a more proper manner, but carrot ice bergs seem to call for some serious slurpin. And I got to admit, it refreshed us a bit, too, I guess, if I’d have to say. For some ridiculous reason that only a person could hope to know about, I think it also made the bucket gal happy. She told us they was carrot “pop sick’els,” though I don’t know why they’re called that on account of thankfully they didn’t make a pop sound, and they didn’t make any of us sick, more like a kinda irritable about the ice part. But like I always say, happy people means happy horses.

But what I ain’t got to do, likely ever, is understand one lick of it. No, not one actual lick. Nor three, nor thirty, nor however many licks it takes to get to the center of a carrot ice berg pop- sick’el. How many licks does it take, y’all might be wonderin? I dunno. I lost count crunchin on carrot bits.


Posted by on September 28, 2015 in Uncategorized


Made in the Shade

The least appreciative horse I ever made the acquaintance of on the whole and entire County Island’s got to be my own horse-buddy Coors Light. I ain’t a horse who “throws shade” around — I learned to say that from a horse down the road who came from a faraway ranch called the Joisey Ranch, to hear him tell it in his funny Joisey horse-talk. It means to talk trash, or likely also to be wasteful, on account of where I came from, shade was scarce and not a thing to be wasted by horse nor human nor any kind of critter. So y’all know thusly that it pains me to say it, about Coors Light, and also that it’s true.

A good ranch horse appreciates a good spot of shade. Where I was raised back at the ranch, tall trees was few and far between, and if you was lucky enough to find one or have one, you made your stand right there beneath its cool branches. Real scrubby brush works, too, if a horse can duck his head under it, or back his hind end up under it and park it in the shade. And on a long workin day when you’re bein rode out to take care of the cattle or mind your own ranch-horse chores, it’s the best feelin in the world to come across some shade when your cowboy tells you to whoa yourself for a spell and let it cast its cool spell on your hide. Shade’s also good for blockin out the rain, unless it’s a whole lotta rain that nothin can stop, and also for fightin off the wind sometimes if it’s real cold. But brush works best for cold wind, like a real brushy creosote if you got that.

It ain’t no surprise, then, that there’s pampered pet County Island horses such as my own Coors Light who don’t appreciate how much shade they got in their own li’l pet-horse corrals. County Island folks even build more horse-shade on purpose, and they call ‘em barns and mare motels (but geldins can go in ‘em, too — I don’t know about studs). And if the shade they built still ain’t got enough shade, they add on more shade by stringin up big breezy tarps that’s even called shades.

This here’s the short and also sad story of Coors Light’s stall shade.

It made it maybe one big full moon-time intact. Coors Light’s a horse that thinks entirely too much. A good horse ought to accept things as they come, and not be so busy all the time thinkin. And also he likes a challenge.

It started one day when he touched it with his teeth to see what it’d do. And it gave a li’l bit. And he snapped it with his teeth, and pulled. It tore in a tiny straight line.

Bein a downright geometrical horse, which is to say a horse who can make proper shapes on account of bein prancified and such when bein rode in a prancin arena, he set to makin tiny, precise shapes in his stall shade.

First a straight line. And then he made it into the precise shape of a prancin arena, with long, even sides and short, even ends. And then he added a couple more smaller prancin arena shapes.

And the bucket gal came out every night and put foul and hot-smellin stuff on top of it, which would keep any sensible horse from puttin his sensitive lips anywhere near it.

Coors Light liked the taste. So he nipped a near damned perfect circle in the shade, too. He also licked all the places the bucket gal sprayed the hot horse-don’t-chew-on-this stuff. Eventually I think she ran out of horse-stop-chewin options. Or she plumb lost her will.

Whenever a tiny shred of the shade came loose, Coors Light pulled on that thread with his teeth, and made himself a big window in his shade he could stick his entire head and neck through to look upon the big ol’ nothin that’s behind his stall. It also let in the burnin hot sun and the rain, but Coors Light didn’t care none. If ya may recall, he’s also the one of us who pokes his head into cactus on purpose.

On days when he remained stallbound, he embellished it some more.

Over time, it set to saggin some across the middle. He made a big ol’ saggy wavy line near from end to end of the shade which he indicated was called a serpentine in prancey horse lingo.

I guess he got bored after that, havin made all the proper prancin shapes there was and drawin dressage tests.

Eventually there came a wild County Island wind that whipped Coors Light’s shade real good. The bucket gal declared it to be dead to the world and ripped what remained of it apart and carried it off to wherever the dead stall shades go.

Unlike me, who’s got my trees and my brush that I like better than the mare motel, and Original Coors, who’s still got his whole, entire stall shade intact, I reckon Coors Light ain’t never gonna have it made in the County Island shade again.


Posted by on August 5, 2015 in Uncategorized


Alfalfa Brain

There are some horses, and more people, who think a thing can change its ways or appearance when everyhorse and every person knows it can’t and it won’t. Which is not to say horses, and some people, ain’t trainable, ‘cause from my own horse-observations, we all are, and some of them are, too. But a thing is whatever thing it was born to be, and that’s how it’ll thusly always be. So for instance if a person on the County Island sees a snake, and thusly knows it’s snake, it don’t matter how purty the snake is, nor how convinced a person is it can train up a snake to be somethin else, or hope that maybe it won’t bite him, or maybe take it home to make it be a pet like a pet dog or a pet barn-cat — yeah, I know that’s ridiculous, the notion of a pet snake, and it ain’t my finest example, but kindly come along with me on this trail — a snake is always gonna do what snakes do.

This is a verifiable example of what’s called havin an alfalfa brain — when some horses chow down on a whole lot of alfalfa hay, self certainly not included, they start seein their surroundins for what they ain’t instead of what they is. Instead of a boulder-rock, they see a hunched-over horse-eatin monster. Instead of a bird in the brush, they see a horse-eatin monster. Instead of a person joggin down the road pushin what’s called a baby stroller, which is like a tiny li’l horse trailer for human foals, they see a horse-eatin monster. Pretty much everythin’s a horse-eatin monster.

People get real bad cases of the alfalfa brain sometimes, too, as regards horse behavior and as regards, from what I can observe as a horse, their own peculiar herd behavior. It likely ain’t literal, on account of I ain’t never considered if people eat alfalfa hay or not. And they don’t see no people-eatin monsters, generally. Instead they see what they’d like to see, instead of what is. And then they get kinda sore and sad when it ain’t what they want it to be, or downright mare-faced crabby.

But enough about people. The point is, you can addle up your own horse-self into thinkin whatever ya want to think about a thing, but that don’t ever change a thing. And even the most sensible of horses come down with a case of alfalfa brain.

For instance. There’s a horse I know who’s kinda palomino-colored. And he’s also an old ranch horse. But he definitely ain’t me, on account of y’all know I’m an honest horse and I would never embellish such a thing.

One time, this kinda palomino-colored old ranch horse who’s a lot like me but who ain’t me thought he saw a real giant black and white cow comin down the road way off in the far, far distance, near so far as to where even a horse can’t tell for sure what it is, and with a rider on its back. And it was wearin a big ol’ saddle blanket, and a big ol’ proper western saddle, and even a proper western horse-bridle. So this horse froze in his tracks, and raised his neck and his head up as tall as they could be, and also arched his neck, and he stared. And he stared. And his hooves refused to budge from where they was planted in the dust, on account of wonderin now was the people really ridin cows around the County Island? I mean, around his own ranch, wherever it is. And he could not take his old eyes off the giant saddle-broke cow, not even when the bucket gal — that is to say, his bucket gal — petted him and tried to direct his attention back to his horse-duties. And also maybe laughed at him a little.

Turns out, it was only the black and white pinto horse who lived down the road, and not a giant saddle-broke cow. And also this all happened right after he’d cleaned up his entire breakfast consistin of a big bucket of alfalfa pellets and had fresh alfalfa on his brain, maybe.

But a pinto horse is just a pinto horse. It ain’t a cow, no matter what a horse may think it looks like, and it can never be a cow. A snake is just a snake. And there’s always a tiny li’l slim chance that maybe this time, that bird ya hear makin tiny bird noises deep inside the brush might be a horse-eatin monster. Especially if you’re one of the Coors horse-brothers and you’re distrustful of bird noises. I like to remind ‘em of that lest they grow complacent and get themselves ate by a real horse-eatin monster one day. I am, if nothin else, a helpful and trustworthy horse, always. As much as I tease ‘em, I’d miss ‘em somethin fierce if a horse-eatin monster did to ‘em what horse-eatin monsters do.

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Posted by on July 29, 2015 in Uncategorized


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