Buns and Tales

Buns and Tail photo1

Horseshoes hittin hard pavement at speed is a sound that’ll wake the most deep-sleepin horse. Most horses don’t travel around the County Island beyond walkin speed, or not for long distances. Maybe some will trot or lope through part of the wash for fun, but then they go back to wanderin at a leisurely walk. But on this day, these horses was comin in hot.

They blew past our own li’l corral at a ground-coverin trot, their young riders bouncin and laughin in their saddles. A race was on, for what purpose I couldn’t tell. But likely braggin rights.

They passed our fence along the pavement and clattered into a lope, then a gallop. The horses stretched their necks flat and pinned their ears to make themselves more what’s called aerodynamic, which means damn, the air whizzes past a fast horse even faster. I had to observe, on account of this was the most excitement the County Island had seen in a long time.

They meant to run straight across the road and into the wash without stoppin! At that point, I kinda doubted the girls coulda stopped those steam-rollin steeds, anyhow. Thankfully, no noisy rumbly-cars nor trucks was comin. They was neck ‘n neck for it, when all of a sudden, one of the girls dropped her reins entirely.

She reached up behind her head, with her good horse still runnin on, and lickety-split undid the floppin ponytail of her hair, did it back up in a tight bun, picked up the reins, and rode on. I wanted to see if fixin her bun cost her the race, but they shot outa sight after that, and I never did find out the final results, nor seen ‘em again. I also assume they didn’t fall down and die in the wash, on account of there never was no turkey vultures circlin.

Which reminds me of rabbits.

Buns, as folks call ‘em here, grow like weeds on the County Island, back at the ranch in my day, and likely everywhere. Ain’t nobody fixin these buns.

There’s rabbits bein given cute names now, and also bein hand-fed horse treats special-bought at a special store which is called organic. Us horses don’t even get fed the organic, not that a horse really knows nor cares what organic even is, but if rabbits get it, horses sure should, too, on account of we deserve it. I know I always say a horse should be grateful for what he’s got, but I’m startin to think if a rabbit can take it all away from us with a tiny hop and some tiny soulful eyes, maybe that changes things.

We got a Buddy bun, a Beau bun, and a baby Beanie bun. I wish I didn’t know any of that, but I do.

I know it on account of the rabbits get fed before horses. That’s right, horses come in second place to rabbits now on the County Island. I know they’re fast, but horses is a lot faster and, to be real honest, we could stomp a rabbit in a race if we wanted to. Horses come first. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.

Likely y’all want to see the rabbits. Well, let me tell ya: They look like rabbits. If ya seen one, ya seen ‘em all. So y’all can imagine ‘em. Buddy came first, and she’s a she. She’s tiny and plays up bein cute. Beau is her beau – I told ya I wished I didn’t know these names – and he’s bigger and also fatter. Beanie is new Buddy’s baby. She’s purty cute, a horse has to admit. But generally they all look like regular rabbits.

Like I said, I’m a horse who likes to follow the rules, but it’s gettin hard in my old age here, and especially when the rules is that rabbits get fed before horses. All I can do about it is nicker louder, though, and stomp my feet around. Stompin accomplishes nothin, but it makes a horse feel good, and also a horse can imagine he’s stompin rabbits, not enough to end ‘em, mind you, but maybe enough to put ‘em back in their rabbit place. Oh, it’s bad behavior, but the bucket gal’s so preoccupied with baby-talkin to her wittle buns and givin them their organic nom-noms, she don’t pay us horses any attention at all. I suppose we ought to be grateful we get fed at all anymore.

I don’t know how this race for the bucket gal’s attention at feedin time will likely end. She’s got a tiny enough attention span as it is. Original Coors thinks maybe we ought to try to “out-cute” the rabbits at feedin time, but me and Coors Light stand in solidarity that we are both cute enough, and also that cute ain’t the point. Bein fed first is. Stay, like the people say, tuned. This race is on, even if the rabbits don’t know it yet.

Buns and Tails gif photo 2

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Posted by on March 15, 2019 in Uncategorized


Now’s the Time

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This is the best time to be a horse here on the County Island, of all the best times there is to be a horse here.

I was about to make fancy words to tell everybody all about it, then I realized it’d be better to show, not tell y’all.

Now’s when we get our best rain from the sky, which makes our best (and also only) grass on the ground.

Like I always say, a horse has got to graze while the grazin is good.

And the grazin’s been real good, for the County Island.

All grass is the best grass.

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Also, rain puddle water’s the best water.

puddle water


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Posted by on February 28, 2019 in Uncategorized


The Tiny Terror

I was headed down the road with the bucket gal sittin in the saddle, like usual. The sunshine was warm, the breeze was gentle, the ride was short and downright peaceable, and my own thoughts was wanderin ahead of us, down the trail to the very end of it, where my very own bucket would be waitin for me. It was the kind of County Island day I can tell about in my sleep. And that’s why I had my eyes mostly shut and my head noddin off down toward the ground at the end of my slack reins.

I don’t have to tell ya what can happen when a horse drops his awareness like that, but I will anyway.

We wandered past a ranch that had some of them li’l shrunk-down horses. Not ponies. I knew about ranch ponies and ranch kids from when I lived at the ranch. These are more like large dog size, and most are pets. And on account of I ever saw ‘em at the ranch, I think they must only grow ‘em, for as much as they do grow ‘em, on the County Island.

Someone was lightly crackin a whip and makin chicken-cluck sounds, which the people make to to get us horses to move along even though we obviously ain’t chickens. My sleepy eyes got a glimpse of a tiny thing goin around and around in tiny circles. It flashed brown at me, then black, and then a lot of white so bright I was startled awake and stopped in my tracks to swing my head around for a better look.

It was a tiny Holstein cow? A sheered tri-color sheepdog? Normally I ain’t even interested in things that strike other horses as strange, but this thing took me by some genuine surprise. The only outward sign of my incredulity was my ears shot straight forward. There are some things on the County Island that’ll make even the most unflappable of horses flap a li’l bit.

It was one of them tiny shrunk-down horses, and a pinto one to boot. Bay and white. Around and around it went in a tiny li’l circle, attached to a long line that ended with a woman who chicken-clucked and flicked the whip to make the tiny horse trot in circles, like a ranch kid’s tiny toy top bein spun on a string.

Further, it was all outfitted like a proper horse, only with tiny tack. It had tiny round boots around its tiny front feet, which would be called bell boots on a normal horse but on this tiny critter you could hardly call ‘em baby bells. It had tiny leg boots wrapped around its tiny legs. It wore a tiny bridle, with a tiny bit in its tiny mouth. It had on a tiny surcingle, which is like a tiny people-corset meant to help round up its tiny back muscles. That gave me the most pause … what’s a tiny horse need a topline full of proper workin back muscles for if it ain’t got real work to do? Was it meant to carry tiny people? Was the County Island breedin those now, too?

It showed me the tiny whites of its tiny eyes as it went around again, darin me to say somethin sarcastic to it. But I know better than to antagonize one of them tiny li’l horse-ankle biters. Also, it ain’t their fault they’re so tiny, no more than it’s Original Coors or Coors Light’s fault they was born Ayrab horses.

The bucket gal patted me and said maybe I was confounded by its tiny pinto coloration, on account of a lot of us normal-size horses are. But I shook my forelock out of my eyes to let her know that wasn’t it. I had no way to convey it was all about all the unexplainable shiny doo-dads and gadgetry attached to the tiny pinto and how it made no sense.

So for those horses that is truly terrified by the mere sight of a tiny pinto horse, remember – it could always be worse. If ya have to ask “how worse,” then ya ought to re-read what I told here, or have your own bucket gal explain it to ya. Thank your lucky stars it was me that saw the li’l pinto guy all blinged out in boots and all the other tiny accoutrements , and not one of you, ‘cause there’s a whole lot of y’all who can’t handle the blindin tiny truth like that. Your brains would likely fall straight out of your ears, like my dam used to say, and nobody on the County Island needs to see that.

tiny terror photo 2

This here picture of a normal horse and a extra tiny pinto terror horse — a foal, no less! — is from the American Miniature Horse Association. Yeah … they actually got an association for that nowadays. 

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Posted by on January 31, 2019 in Uncategorized


30 + 1


This is me, on my 31st birthday.

People on the County Island are real peculiar after a horse passes age 30. Suddenly, they seem to realize every day spent with a horse matters, as if days with us horses didn’t matter before that. Now, I like to be appreciated as much as the next horse, mostly with carrots, cookies, and maybe some alfalfa and green grass that I can’t chew much no more but I can still savor before I spit it out. But a good horse ought to do his job regardless of appreciation, even if it’s the eatin kind.

I was told yesterday was my own birthday, so I guess I’ll take the bucket gal’s word for it. A horse can’t really recall the day he was born or how long ago it was, or much about his colthood except it was likely spent bein a brat to his dam and gettin nipped back into the herd line as needed. I seem to recall I got nipped a lot. And I already told everybody a lot about my own 25th birthday and then my 30th birthday, so there’s that.

Yesterday was a peculiar day ‘cause it involved a lot more food than usual. I got twice my customary amount of cookies. I also got a couple delicious sticks called “crunchy peanut butter granola bars,” which I ain’t had in a real long while. When me and the bucket gal would go for pointless trail rides, or hunt club beagle and rabbit chasin, or movin cows from one end of the pen to another for no good reason, me and her would sometimes split a couple “crunchy peanut butter granola bars” between us. Also, I did not have to wear anythin birthday-like upon my head, like I did last year.

So pretty much, now that I am 30 plus 1, there seems to be a lot more eatin to do, not that I’m complainin about it. If yesterday’s trail ride is any indication, rides also seem to involve a lot of breaks to graze where we can find grazin.

It used to be, it was a bad habit for a horse to stop and graze with a bit in his mouth and a rider in his saddle, but I seem to have outlived those days. Now, we take a lot of grazin breaks. To tell the truth, in addition to the grazin part, the best part of the break is takin a break. I don’t move as fast as I used to, but I still move. Like the prancified horses like to say, forward is forward. Ya keep on puttin one hoof in front of the other until the day that ya can’t. It don’t matter how long it takes ya to do it, so long as ya do it. That’s what a good horse does.


This is me again, enjoyin a peaceful evenin with a full belly after my 31st birthday ride. Life is good for a horse on the County Island.




Posted by on January 18, 2019 in Uncategorized


Three Strides

Three Strides photo

One Stride

When Original Coors was a greenhorn, the bucket gal had her mind set on makin him a cross-stick jumpin horse as well as a bonafide prancin horse. Cross-sticks is exactly what they sound like: sticks of wood that the people set up criss-crossed low to the ground inside a arena, over which to “jump” a horse, if such small stuff can be called horse jumpin.

Original Coors did real good at sticks lyin flat upon the ground, which is how a green jumpin bean takes his first jump steps, by plain walkin over ‘em. Then they trot ‘em for a while, too.

Then one day the bucket gal set up the tiniest of tiny li’l criss-cross sticks, all crossed maybe two hoof-heights from the ground. They trotted sedately up to ‘em, as bein sedate was Original Coors’ general manner, and still is, with eyes half-closed unless there was somethin of note to look or spook at. One stride out, he still had his eyes shut, dreamin of all the alfalfa hay he’d eat for dinner later that night long after trottin across the dumb sticks lyin on the ground for the umpteenth time…

Then he raised a front hoof just enough to clear a ground stick, and WHAM! To hear him tell it, the stick hit his hoof so hard he woke straight up and jumped straight into the air like a bunny-rabbit. To make matters worse, the bucket gal laughed out loud at his surprise and at his unbearable pain in his hoof from hittin the stick. (Those is his words, not mine. Surely bangin a hoof on the fenceline at feedin time hurts worse, which is to say not at all.)

From then on out, he closed his eyes on purpose one stride out from the cross-sticks every single and solitary danged time, so as not to see the dreadful impact comin. And thus his hoof hit the sticks every time. Thus he bounced like a bunny every time. The bucket gal soon lost her sense of humor, and also one time her seat in the saddle, over his rabbit routine.

Shortly after, she gave up on the whole idea, as a jumpin horse don’t care to look where he’s jumpin is as bad and unpredictable as a ranch dog who don’t care to look where or how hard he’s bitin.

Two Strides

Coors Light’s his own horse. He’s also the bucket gal’s horse, like we all are, and also he’s Original Coors’ half-brother by way of their daddy. So, there’s that.

The second thing he bragged about to me and his brother when he first came to the County Island, after braggin he was once a bonafide national champion at horse prancin –  which I knew was a lie – was that no one could make him jump, not even a real big man around the ranch. The man was what’s called a Cherman, which is a real important and well-to-do cowboy that talks funny, does not wear a cowboy hat, and trains all the top prancin horse at a high-falutin spread they call The Chermany. He, too, said all prancin horses also can jump. Only he said it like “chump.”

And so I watched with some interest when the bucket gal set up some tiny cross-sticks inside our own li’l prancin arena and was ridin Coors Light toward ‘em. They was supposed to “make him more forward,” as I overheard it told, which is one of the most ridiculous things I ever heard upon the whole County Island. All horses travel in a forward direction. No horse ever has trotted backward more than a few steps before fallin over. Forward’s the only option a horse has got. Our eyes and ears and heads all face forward. Our own hooves is pointed forward, not backward. Therefore, a horse is made to go forward by design.

Me and Original Coors both raised our heads forward and picked our ears forward as Coors Light and the bucket gal trotted forward at the cross-sticks, both of us havin heard The Chermany man chumpin story told many times over.

And two strides out, Coors Light stopped dead. He had no forward at all, and also no backward. Thump, thump went the bucket gal’s tiny stubby spurs on his thick sides. But no amount of thumpin nor pleadin nor beggin could make him go forward. She reined him around the other forward direction, and forward they trotted away from the cross-sticks. Then, she aimed him back around at the cross-sticks, and two strides out, WHOMP. His hooves done stuck to the ground like they was stuck in deep mud. Words were said, which I shall not repeat.

After, she untacked him and he went to roll in the scratchy-good arena sand. Then he stood up, shook himself off, turned a wise, wide eye forward in the direction of me and Coors, and also in the bucket gal’s direction, and he walked straight forward across the cross-sticks of his own volition, easy as walkin down a bridle path. Then he stopped, looked straight forward at her, and did it again, goin the other way, just like she’d begged him to do under saddle.

I guess he showed her what “chump” meant.

Three Strides

After Coors Light made a chump of her, the bucket gal still left the cross-sticks up, even though they was entirely done with that. And she knew better than to try ‘em ever again with Original Coors, from hard, like the ground, experience.

The thing is, if a horse has the ability to do somethin, he should always do it, especially when a person asks him to. Of course he shouldn’t do a dangerous thing, such as walk through a wall of fire when there’s clearly another way around it that ain’t got any fire at all. But if you’re ever stuck in a real fire with your person and your person asks you to walk forward through fire, you should flat-out gallop through fire and go.

At first I didn’t see much point to the cross-sticks, seein as how they wasn’t proper arroyos, banks, or deadfall to jump as when movin forward across the range on the ranch either pushin cattle or lookin for ‘em.

Then I learned to make it count.

A good ranch horse is always countin somethin along with his cowboy – the number of cattle in all, plus how many brown ones, how many black ones, how many with calves, how many bulls and how many of those is mean bulls, and so on, to make sure they’re all accounted for. Also how many gates and fences and which ones need fixin and how long will the fixin take so you can get a good snooze in. Countin is an important part of the job for a horse. Also the number of steps it takes to get back to our own home corrals from any point on the ranch when we’re done for the day. These are the most important things we count. For fun, I liked to count how many steps I could cross a familiar river bank in, or how many times I might sneak a bit of grass if we came across any before my rider noticed. Countin helps pass the time durin a long workday.

And so I want to impart what I learned to all the jumpin and especially the chumpin horses of the County Island.

If ya count your own strides while you’re trottin or lopin toward the cross-sticks and also the real big jumps, you’ll know where your hooves are, and also where the sticks are, and ya won’t hit ‘em nor dislodge your rider. It makes jumpin easy, and even fun, if you’re inclined to enjoy it.

Me and the bucket gal had real good but pointless time lopin circles in the arena, jumpin cross-sticks. One, two, three, jump… one, two, three, jump… It wasn’t much to brag on, but we was good at it, and we had fun. I found it funny how she found it funny that a little ol’ ranch horse such as myself would be good at jumpin. Trust me, horses, it’s as easy as one, two, three.

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Posted by on December 21, 2018 in Uncategorized


Follow My Lead

Follow My Lead image

I always was a good ranch horse who did whatever was asked of me, which is how a horse is supposed to do his job. When I left the ranch and was newly arrived on the County Island and its nearby territories, that didn’t change. Even when the job didn’t seem to make sense.

When I first arrived here, and before I met the bucket gal, there was a ranch gal who started workin me to see what I knew how to do. I wrote about it here, thusly, and it went a bit as follows:

They started workin us, tryin to figure out what we knew (I dunno why they didn’t already know) … At the lope, they seemed unnecessarily preoccupied with which leg I led off with and in which direction, and I didn’t know why the hell it mattered, but they wanted to be able to say I could “take both my leads.” It was all peculiar.

So, I got trained up to be a ranch horse who could take both of his leads when ya asked me.

For those horses that ain’t acquainted yet with takin leads, that’s when a horse is lopin along in a tiny pen not even as big as a cow feed lot that’s called an arena, and a person leans a horse’s shoulder so hard into the fenceline that he damn near falls over and ain’t got no choice but to catch his balance with his inside front foot and strike off with that foot. Most of the times when I was workin, leads didn’t make a difference as far as anybody was concerned. But they wanted me to learn how to catch myself while fallin over, and so I learned to take my leads before I landed on the fence. On the ranch I always led off my my left front foot, but I learned how to fall onto my right one, too, even though it felt real funny and unbalanced.

Then the bucket gal came along and turned me into a horse that knows his leads, which I learned is entirely different than a horse that takes his leads by bein made to fall into a fence.

A horse that knows his leads don’t need to fall into the fence at all. He can pick up his leads even if there ain’t a fence in sight for miles. Here’s how it works, how I learned it, and why every horse ought to commit it to memory. Also, I let my horse-buddy Coors Light provide some of the more advanced leads information herein, on account of he was a bonafide leads prancing champion in his youth. So what he contributed thusly may not be accurate.

The first time the bucket gal told me there was more than one lead I could take, and without fallin over, we was trottin to the left inside our own lil corral’s prancing arena, and she was movin her inside leg around and tappin me, and makin a kiss-kiss sound at the same time. I was accustomed to fully ignorin a person that wiggles about in the saddle. Sometimes cowboy’s got to stretch their own legs. It makes no difference to a horse. So I picked up my usual left lead, which I like to take no matter which way we’re goin. She made a enormous fuss over me for that. Then we trotted. She did it again. Inside leg wiggle. Kiss-kiss. I loped like I always did and got praised to the high heavens. It was real nice, but not necessary.

We changed directions over to my right side. Instead of makin me trot faster and faster til my legs damned near run off from me, and then throwin my shoulder into the fence, she again wiggled around her inside leg and went kiss-kiss. So I struck off with my same left leg – which was thusly the outside leg at the time. We went back to a trot. She did it again with more intent. Thump and a wiggle on the inside, kiss-kiss. So I offered to strike off into a lope on my inside foot since she didn’t throw my shoulder out or nothin. Off we loped, and she patted my neck and scratched my withers and told me I was the best boy in the whole entire world. It again seemed excessive, but I liked it. It helps the learnin process if you’re a horse who pays close attention to humans to start with. If ya really lean into tryin to learn what they’re sayin in their crude people-manner, a lot of stuff starts to make more sense.

I learned that day to get pets when I picked up my inside hoof first. And ya know what? Lopin to the right got easier, too, without bein throwed off balance and into the fence. The bucket gal let me lope straight. It was always harder for me than the other direction, but it got a whole lot easier and more comfortable once I knew my leads instead of bein made to take ‘em or leave ‘em. Once I gave it more thought, I realized it woulda been real helpful and comfortable back at the ranch, too, not that us horses is ever prone to ponderin pointless what-ifs. Soon I learned kiss-kiss meant inside leg no matter what, and she didn’t even have to wiggle her legs about no more. We was copacetic.

Here’s where things get shady.

Coors Light claims sometimes horses also get praised to the high heavens when they take the wrong lead. Which their riders ask them for, on purpose. And then there’s skippin and leapin about and bein entirely disrespectful at the lope, which he calls flyin changes and “tempe” changes, I guess on account of doin so’s likely to give your rider a bad tempe-r for sure.

All I know is I sure had better balance lopin about on the proper leads once I was properly educated. They seemed like a real good idea, after all. I hope the idea catches on and spreads like the kinda wildfire that helps the range instead of burnin it clean out. So a good horse should always try his best to pay attention and learn, even when his rider may not seem to make a lick of sense. If I can get more horses to follow my lead on this common-sense stuff, my time on the County Island will have been spent well, in addition to the rest of the good time I’m havin here.


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Posted by on November 20, 2018 in Uncategorized


The Devil Inside

The Devil Inside photo

You can’t teach an old goat new tricks. Goats is goats, and they do goat things because they can, and that’s about all there is to it. But some horses like to make more of it. Such as Ol’ Red.

Ol’ Red never perfected the side eye, which is all the acknowledgement I like to give to a goat. The more attention ya give to goats, the more ya goad ‘em on. It ain’t a coincidence that the people words “goad” and “goat” sound alike. Goats eat up attention like us horses eat up sweet, sweet alfalfa.

Red was Ol’ Red back when I was plain but not yet old Whiskey. I was too old for the ranch but just right for the County Island and newly arrived. Ol’ Red was a good ol’ been there and done that horse. He’d seen a lot in his time despite never doin ranch work: jumped a lot, traveled a lot, been rode across the trails a lot. And he was near 30 although you’d never know it to look at him. Nothin on the whole, entire County Island fazed him, except for goats.

The li’l boardin stable ranch where we both resided was goat-free, but the ranch across the fenceline and next to our own ridin arena was damned near infested with goats, at least if ya asked Red. And they was free-ranged. The horses that lived on their side of the fence was what the people call “acclimated,” which means goat-broke to goats gettin all up in their business and feed bins all day long.

On that day, Ol’ Red and a bunch of other jumpin horses, which jump pointless stick-jumps inside an arena and not proper arroyos, boulders and downed trees on the range, was bein jumped for one pointless people-hour in what’s called a “lesson.” Lessons is when people, who are by nature forgetful, have to be told time and time again how to do the same danged thing they did the week before. The horse has to partake, too.

I was bein rode around the outside edge of the arena but not as part of the lesson, just walkin and joggin, who knows why. I could jump back then, too, but that’s a tale for another time.

Ol’ Red could still jump fine even if his rider was more of a greenhorn. He packed her around as careful as a bonafide useful pack of tools durin her lessons. A real Steddy Eddy the people called him, although Steady Reddy was more like it.

Ol’ Red packed his rider over a li’l stick-jump that took them crossways across the arena, toward the corner of the fenceline where there grew a tall and shady tree with lots of big, leafy, sturdy branches on the neighborin ranch’s side.

As he loped toward the corner whereupon he was set to make his usual turn to the right and toward the next jump as per the usual lesson-routine, one of the tree branches of the tree in the corner by the fenceline gave a slight shake. He raised his head to get a better look, and pointed his ears at it directly.

Two stride, three strides – it shook again.

Four strides, five strides, six stri— and the whole damn tree bleated with a blood-curdlin BAAAAA as a gang of goats swayed to and fro on its big arms. All any horse could see was their horns bouncin between branches and their beady, dead goat-eyes peerin out. And Ol’ Red was starin straight at ‘em.

I’d never seen a horse lope backwards before. It was peculiar, but effective. If he’d been goin forwards and also chasin a steer, it would have been one damned fine and fast steer run.

It wasn’t so good for his off-center rider, however, especially when he threw in a spin and a buck to help launch himself farther away from the demon goat-horn tree.

She landed in the dirt with a thud.

One of the other lesson horses snorted so hard at that he spooked himself a second time, and also started lopin backwards. He was less successful than Ol’ Red, and tripped over his own back hooves, landin in a heap with his own rider still in the saddle.

I think there might have been a few more rodeos, too, especially when the goats all decided it was time to get back down out of the tree. All together. At once. Jumpin down on their dancin goat hooves and shakin their horns free of the foliage as if to beat the devil himself. Because all of the eyes of every livin thing was watchin them. But it was hard for even a horse to see what really happened, as the air was thick with rodeo dirt and dust.

Me, I stayed in the far, faraway corner of our ridin arena where I’d been whoaed. And I refused to look at the damned goat tree as it swayed and baa’ed some more. I do not look directly at goats, not then, and not ever.

As far as I recall, the only real thing that got hurt that day was a whole lot of horse and people pride. No goats was harmed, neither, but maybe they shoulda been.

And Ol’ Red, who’s likely long gone now to the big sky pasture the people tell about, never did get over goats.

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Posted by on September 30, 2018 in Uncategorized