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


Get Over It

Get Over It blog photo

If you’re gonna run with the big dogs, first, you got to get over it. By you, well, I mean us horses. By run, I mean mostly trottin and also some lopin. Well, truthfully, mostly walkin. By big dogs, I mean beagle-dogs. Do ya see where this is goin?

By get over it, I mean hurry up and get over it. We can’t go nowhere chasin after bad beagle-dogs with the “hunt club” ‘til every last hunt club horse gets over the step-over and into the beagle-chasin, rabbit-runnin hills. On this particular day, it took a lot longer than it should.

My hocks could really bend back then to get over anythin at all. But I had to wait my turn that day and every day. In pointless rabbit-chasin, there’s a proper way to do it, called a “protocol,” just like in proper ranch work — although nobody would think there’d be anything proper nor orderly about somethin as silly as runnin after dogs that’s runnin after rabbits for no reason. But the tallest, most keyed-up horses have to go first, as they do the most runnin. Also, there’s more of them than of us. I was more than happy to be to be ridin at the back of the trailer, so to speak, with what’s called the short bus for nonsense people-reasons, as well as ‘cause most of us short bus horses were short. But my patience with the big horses ran a li’l short. I stood still and good like I always do, but maybe my ears betrayed me.

If the first horse won’t get over it, nobody can get over it. The first horse that mornin had some right cat-like cuttin horse moves on her — although she was a big ol’ warmblood and therefore not cut out for cow work — the way she danced left and right in front of the step-over. The bad news for her was we wasn’t cuttin cattle, and even if we was, we’d be more likely to find ‘em on the other side of the danged step-over. Eventually, the big mare squeezed her eyes shut tight, and jumped it like she was a jackrabbit herself. Her rider went with her, so that worked out alright for her.

The second horse planted his hooves ‘til they near grew roots. A team of beagle-chasin women dressed in their beagle finery finally formed a chain to lock their arms around his butt and try and push him over it from behind. It wasn’t pretty, and his hind hooves left long drag marks in the deep dirt, but it did work.

The third horse must’ve been payin close attention to the first two, on account of he also seemed to have a bad balk to him. A couple crop marks on his butt set his mind right.

It was set to be a real long day.

Didn’t these horses realize the quicker we got over the step-over to get the job done, the quicker we could all get right back here to our own hay nets at our own rollin horse-boxes? But, turned out, logic was scarcer than jackrabbits that day. Maybe it was the wind. It was a windy day, and that rattles some horses’ ears loose. Maybe if you’re a taller horse like these all was, the wind reaches more of the insides of your ears and tickles ‘em worse than how it reaches us smaller and more sensible horses.

Any horse can jump, the County Island people like to say, and I suppose that ought to include pickin up your own hooves from a walk to step over somethin.

Any horse can jump, that is, except for my buddy Coors Light. And even he likely could if he really wanted to. He can even step over a step-over, when he wants to.

But Coors Light trained the bucket gal to step down out of the saddle and walk him over. How about those apples.

That mornin with the beagle-dog and rabbit-chasin-after club, nobody was steppin down out of the saddle. That might’ve been easier, though, and surely it might’ve been faster.

I am generally opposed to speed. But I shuffled my own feet to try to say, come on, y’all. Let’s get this thing underway so we can wrap it back up! I could see my own hay bag out of the corner of my eye, hangin all by itself off my own rollin white horse-box, without me there rippin and tossin my hay from it with a happy hunger.

Finally, some sensible big, fast horses appeared, and right on over they went with their riders, lickity-split. Some of ‘em even split from the step-over at a dead run. This was more like it.

When our riders was finally tired of pesterin dogs and rabbits hours later, we all headed back to the horse-boxes with the same step-over between us and our feed. And I’ll be damned if there wasn’t one horse who required great persuasion to step back over the same step-over he didn’t want to step over to go out and run. And his rider did step down from the saddle. A great tug o’war commenced with her one one side, and her horse on the other. Both was flarin their nostrils pretty bad. Finally, he jumped the step-over like it was a great rattlesnake-infested ravine instead of a plain ol’ log not even as tall as his knees. Then the rest of us could go, too.

I suppose of the moral of the story is, some horses don’t have the sense to think ahead and consider the consequences of the way they behave. I don’t mean consider the way people consider, and consider, and consider, and keep on considerin and refusin to simply let go and get over a thing. People are terrible at lettin go. I mean consider your own hooves and your own stomach and where your hooves need to be to best serve your stomach. Also, there’s one in every herd that holds up the whole band’s forward progress, every single time. When it happens, all a good short-bus horse can do is wait his turn, get over it, and let it all go back to the rollin horse-box and his own sweet, sweet feed.

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Posted by on August 9, 2018 in Uncategorized


Top Secret: About Whiskey. Totally Do Not Tell Him.


Top Secret blog photo 1 

Dudes, hay! This is totally Coors Light.

So it takes Whiskey longer to get up from a nap these days, because of his “bad hawks and also a bum stifle, fetlock, and pretty much bum everything, so I am totally taking advantage and posting this before he figures it out and tries to get up to stop me.

So a while ago, me and my bro Original Coors snuck through the fence when the hotwire was down, over to his Facebook Ranch, and asked what you guys REALLY want to know about Whiskey.

Me and Original Coors know ALL the dirt. Literally, we know dirt. Here’s some of it. If you like it, great. If not, whatever. We totally had fun doing this.

Is Whiskey a real horse?

Yep, he’s as real as me and Original Coors are! Sometimes he’s a little too real, like, y’know, “keepin it real,” but the cool thing – and you guys can never tell him I said this – is you always know where you stand with him. Like you never have to wonder if he’s going to bite or kick you. By the time it happens, you’ll totally know it’s coming because he told you for like at least 10 minutes before. I personally know where all his buttons are, and I like to push them. Me and him are cool like that. It’s a game we play, or well, I play. Whiskey doesn’t play games.

 Is he really 30 years old?

We actually don’t know. But everybody says he is, and they say it’s like it’s true, so it must be true. I mean he’s got to be at LEAST 30. Also don’t tell him, but we like having him around even though he’s all bossy and “look at me, I’m Whiskey Ranch-Horse, a good horse ain’t never a bad color, neigh blah neigh blah…” So we hope he gets to be 31, or maybe even 36. Original Coors’ dam got be 36.

How are the bucket bunnies these days?

They’re bunnies, so they’re always good. Whiskey really needs to tell you guys more about them, because they’re really entertaining. And they’re not mean, or smelly, or annoying like a lot of the other critters on the County Island. Bunnies are cool.

What is the deal with Original Coors’ tail? Why does it curl around look so totally awesome? Does it help with propulsion make all the mares think he’s handsome?

Hi – this is the original OC, Original Coors! Your question was very rude, so I made it nicer. I have a fabulous tail that floats when I trot. All the mares in the ‘hood think it’s hot. Thanks for asking.

Is there really an island in the desert?


Is Whiskey really a double-branded warmblood as he claims?

If your definition is that he’s got two brands, and his blood is warm.

Was there ever really a barenekkid jogger, really now?

Sadly, there was. Like, he was a local LEGEND. People wear clothes for a REASON, you guys. Us horses got to see WAY too much of his reason.

 How tall is Whiskey?

He’s 14.2 the day the farrier’s been overdue by like a week.

Why does Whiskey hate apples, or does he?

I think he’s got texture issues. He won’t touch them, at all, ever. More for us!

 Is the “sweet talkin but evil vet lady” really evil?

She’s super chill and nice and we don’t know what his problem is with her. She’s not even semi-evil. She takes really good care of us, and once in a while she brings cookies or an apple. (But Whiskey hates apples; see above.)

Who’s the smartest one in the herd?

Obviously me, Coors Light.

Who’s the tallest?

Also me, Coors Light. I am 15.2 hands.

Who’s the youngest?

Original Coors is 22 and the baby. I’m 24.

Does Whiskey ever talk in his sleep?

NO! Thank GOD.

 Do horses hear “laurel” or “yanni”?

No. That’s a really weird question.

Did you guys watch the Royal Wedding this year? Did Original Coors cry?

If it doesn’t happen on our road on the County Island, we don’t watch it. Coors cries a lot, though, especially when we go out and he gets left behind. We watch bucket bunnies get married all the time, if you mean something different by “get married” before they have a lot of little bunnies.

Is Coors Light really a bonafide national prancin champion?

Seriously, yeah! It’s a real thing. I wore red roses around my neck and everything. But nobody would let me eat the roses, which was really dumb and so in my fancy win pics I look totally bored and disgusted and like maybe I might eat the roses anyway. Man, I could really prance back in the day.

Can Whiskey foxtrot, since Texas A&M’s DNA test says he’s a Fox Trotter?

Only when he wants to.

Why are Arabians so much better than ranch horses?

Some things defy explanation. We just are.

Top Secret blog photo 2


Posted by on July 8, 2018 in Uncategorized


Shields Up

Duct tape ain’t good enough for the County Island no more, and that’s a bonafide fact. Neither is the stretchy wrap that’s named after the sweet-talkin’ but evil lady – called the vet wrap. Now,’ my busted ol hawks has suddenly got to be shielded. But they can’t be shielded with wraps of duct tape that can fix up a whole entire ranch plus all the critters on it, nor with the vet wrap stuff. What I heard is they suddenly got to be shielded from the dirt and the dust, which don’t make a lick of sense, and bein a 30-year-old horse now, I got sense to spare. My hocks is well-acquainted with dirt and dirt sores. They ain’t no big deal. But, I suppose the bucket gal means well. And I still get fed. A lot. Sometimes I even get double breakfasts or even double suppers if I ask with a real polite nicker.

More and more I got to wonder what the point is of ever tryin to understand the County Island. On the other hoof, if the bucket gal’s made happy shieldin my hocks from the sand, so be it. And they ain’t near as funny to try and walk in as a horse might think, the hock shieldin devices.

I think the County Island’s a place a horse just got to accept if he wants to be happy, same as everythin else that matters in a good ranch horse’s life. In the end, a happy horse is an acceptin horse, no matter how his bucket gal dresses him.

I mean they an’t half bad, but they also ain’t doin no good as far as I can tell. All I know is they ain’t worth fussin over, no more than what I already done here. The County Island works in real mysterious ways most times.


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Posted by on May 31, 2018 in Uncategorized


Neither Young Nor Stupid

Neither Young Nor Stupid blog photo

Bein old and bein young has got a lot in common when you’re a horse.

For instance, when you’re three and ya do somethin’ good, the people say AWW GOOD BOY to let ya know you’re special.

And when you’re 30, they say the same thing – AWW GOOD BOY – if ya do any damn thing at all.

Ya eat all your dinner – AWW GOOD BOY. Ya walk around the trail for a borin slow ride – AWW GOOD BOY. Ya stand for picture-takin with a sparkly birthday “30” crown upon your head – AWW GOOD BOY. Ya stand up on your own hooves after lyin down for a nap – AWW GOOD BOY.

There ain’t nothin special about bein special.

The older and wiser I get, the more I know it to be true deep down inside my own time-worn bones – how much alike bein three and bein 30 is.

I’m pretty sure the bucket gal knows I know how to step over and through all manner of things by now, on account of we’ve done it together enough. But lately she don’t act like she remembers any of it.

Could she be gettin old and forgetful?

There was once a time when I leaped across a bonafide oxer fence all by myself, and as tall as myself, with the bucket gal, carrot guy and other witnesses watchin. I walked right up to it when I was turned loose in the jumpin arena, and gave it a thought. Seemed like a fun thing to do. My hocks set down upon the ground to launch me up and over that oxer from a standstill so I could fly. I suppose that’s why I thought they was called hawks before, on account of the flyin.

When me and the bucket gal chased all them bad beagle-dogs across the range in search of jackrabbits all those times, with the hunt club that never hunted nothin nor fired a gun, I jumped across more arroyos than I can count. We jumped ditches and banks and downed trees and cactus. We crossed deep muddy washes and sandy slip-slidin spots too. I was sure-footed to pick my way across and through and up and down any kinda terrain in any weather.


I surely got to be led by the halter-rope at a easy walk, back and forth across two tiny flat poles on the ground inside the prancin arena, like a greenhorn baby that don’t yet know it’s got four feet much less where they all are.

It’s harder than it ought to be.

It’s harder than I ever recall it bein, in fact, even when I was three.

My old, bad hocks don’t like to bend no more. For most of my days they been real good and useful hawks. They started goin bad before I came to live upon the County Island, now that I care to think on it. Then they went real bad, and I learned all about hawk jail. When ya get released from jail, of course a horse is gonna feel better and it ain’t got a think to do with vet ladies and their diabolical ways of pokin stuff into horses. They’re unrelated. I never knew hawks could also go from bad to worse, but mine have gone and done it.

Even when they’re worse, though, I still try. A horse has always got to try. It’s the right thing to do, and also the only practical thing. Young horses waste a lot of their good hawks on impractical things that get a horse in trouble one way or the other. There’s nothin special nor good about that.

The trouble is, when I want to go, often my hawks do not. And they have the power to make that decision for me, seems like.

And so I get led around over poles upon the ground. It ain’t so bad. But sometimes my hawks don’t even want to do that much. You keep puttin one hoof down in front of the other, and ya do it with a hitch in your get-along if ya got to. And ya do it even when it also feels dumb and pointless. Maybe ya wish the bucket gal would raise ‘em a little bit so ya could at least hop over and have some fun, and then ya think, no, never mind.

The bucket gal has promised me of late that she’ll do everythin in her power to keep my hocks from hurtin, and she won’t let me hurt bad. And I did believe her –

Until, after such a deep and meaningful promise, she went and summoned the sweet-talkin but evil vet lady again, who never has made me feel better except when she leaves. The bucket gal directed her to poke me in the neck two times and also directed her to demonstrate how to stick sharp things into me herself, even when the vet lady ain’t even there! I don’t remember what occurred after that, ‘cause they knocked me out cold.

What kinda promise is “I won’t hurt ya/here’s the vet come to hurt ya?” And oh, by the way, “I am now fully trained to stick needles into ya myself, and maybe I’ll do so whenever I feel like it and with no warnin to a sensible horse?”

No wonder so many County Island horses got trust issues.

Now, of course, I do feel better. Any horse would. As usual, it ain’t got nothin to do with things bein stuck into me by neither vet-ladies nor bucket gals.

I can only smartly conclude the bucket gal’s goin senile, with all her strange behaviors.

I did not get to be 30 by bein a stupid horse.

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Posted by on April 9, 2018 in Uncategorized


A Hole in His Head

A Hole in His Head Blog Photo

One time, Original Coors got a big hole in his head. More than the usual one I joke about sometimes, I mean. He didn’t know how it came to reside in his head, and you’d think if anyone would know, it’d be him. The thought would trouble me more, but I’m a sensible horse that ain’t got a hole in his head. If it don’t concern ya, it don’t concern ya. So far I lived my entire life with only the proper holes in my head for my nose, eyeballs and ears, and seems likely I’ll remain that way. If I don’t, I don’t.

But Coors went on and on about it. He claimed it itched, a lot. He itched it on every itchin place he could find in our own corral until he’d itched it raw.It itched it ‘til it blew up apple-size, or even bigger than that, as if he had a apple stuck in the back of his craw and could not spit it out – which is the only proper way to handle a mealy, disgustin-sweet-sick thing like a apple. They ain’t meant to be ate by me, nor by Original Coors from the looks of his apple-swelled-up head.Worth notin: When a horse’s face swells up like a bad apple overnight, but he ain’t ate an apple recently and he rubs it ‘til all the hair falls off and it looks like a apple you’d find run over on the side of the road, County Island people come undone.

Do you want to know how many times the evil, evil, but sweet-talkin’ vet-lady stuck her own hand inside Original Coors’ head that night, and pulled out a horse don’t even what to guess how much of what kinda gunk from Coors’ head, after the bucket gal told her tiny telephone that lives in her pocket to make a emergency call?

I couldn’t tell ya. But it was lot. I high-tailed it outa there. No part of whatever was goin down that night would ever get the chance to reach down inside my own parts. But I swear I heard the vet lady say her hand near about touched the underside of Coors’ tongue, up inside his mouth, inside his head. Later, Coors verified it felt both awful and true.

Once she cleared out all the bad junk there was, and her and the bucket gal made reference to somethin they called “a thousand island dressin” now bein ruined forever for them, Original Coors was left standin with an even bigger, now hollowed-out hole inside his head. And it made her and our own bucket gal happy.

The bucket gal spent the next forever days wipin Coors’ head hole clean and waterboardin him, which is when a person, under the direction of an evil vet lady, makes a horse stand still as a board on the side of a barn while she aims a water-hose inside his head to flush it out and then pours medicine that stings like a bee in it, too. Or so I am told.

The bucket gal also went damn near sideways swipin clean every single part of our corral and everythin inside it. She cleaned the buckets and the hay holders and the fence rails and gates and latches, and even aimed cleaner stuff at the damned dirt underneath our hooves. She cleaned her own people-feet. And her hands. And changed her clothes more than once while she tended to us. I swear I figured she’d set to wipin down the rabbits next. She was that crazed.

That’s when it came to me it must be the strangles like what swept through the ranch sometimes.

I could tell everybody a whole lot more about how the hole in Coors’ head gaped and oozed, and also about how it gave forth a real foul smell, and for how long, as counted by forever days by the bucket gal. But I won’t.

Turned out it wasn’t the strangles at all, and so the County Island rabbits was spared bein wiped clean up one side and down the other cottontail side, as was me and Coors Light. We was also spared any more of the tiny stick set up our nether regions to tell a person if we was feverish or not even though we knew we wasn’t.

The cause was found to be a cow thing, so they say, but that don’t make sense ‘cause we ain’t got cattle nor have we associated with none in a real long time. Likely that’s all I can tell about it, without bein a horse that cares to truly listen to the sweet-talkin but evil lady. Also, despite what I said back here, Original Coors ain’t a actual cow.

The hole in his head lasted from well before the time of the red and green antler hats set upon County Island horses’ head, to plumb near when we was all shed out in preparation for the hot time. Or, in people parlance, “forever.”

So now y’all can easily comprehend how the giant cow hole in Coors’ head remains a great mystery. It’s gone now, and so’s the evil vet lady, which is all I care about. Original Coors cares that his head’s whole again, and also that the vet lady’s gone. Coors Light got off the easiest in all this whole deal, as he had neither a extra unexplained head hole nor a near daily fear of the vet lady like I endured.

And I hope not to know anymore about cows nor their holes ever again.

Actinomycosis in horses:

Actinomycosis in animals:

Merck Veterinary Manual:

 If you’re a person that’s squeamish, kindly whoa yourself right here and turn back. This ain’t the trail for you.




If you’re a person that likes to look upon disgustin things, then keep goin. Thusly, here is Original Coors’ hold before it even was a hole, when it was more like a swollen-up apple under his jaw by the crick of his throat latch. And then two days later what it looked like empty and damned well dug out by our very own sweet-talkin but evil vet lady.




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Posted by on March 11, 2018 in Uncategorized