I ain’t got the words today to tell about this.
All I got to say is, what in —?
Oh, I’ll likely find some words….
But not today.
I ain’t got the words today to tell about this.
All I got to say is, what in —?
Oh, I’ll likely find some words….
But not today.
It’s said they came to the County Island in the dead of night. To hear the spookiest horses tell it, they came in the middle of a blindin beam of light, a deep rumble of doom, and a rattle they felt deep within their own bones, but I suppose it coulda been the high beams and diesel of a proper ranch-truck and `the rattle of a proper stock trailer, though there ain’t one proper thing about ‘em. And callin ‘em stock might be a stretch.
It’s the time of year again when a crisp, cool wind whistles between a whole lotta horses’ ears and up their tails, trottin what they got for brains around in tight circles in a tizzy of terrifyin thoughts inside their own heads. Even a good horse like me’s got to be careful not to let his imagination stray too far from the herd. Keep your head and your hooves collected.
But there’s no denyin they’re here, whatever they are.
I smelled ‘em once, from the proper side of the wall behind which they’re penned, but I didn’t see ‘em on account of they got a tall wall and I ain’t got tall legs. From the smell, they were hay-burners like us horses, only more dank and more cowwy. But they didn’t smell entirely like a cow. They sounded like they was millin too, on hooves. I didn’t hear no mooin nor bawlin, though. The only thing they could possibly be, I reckoned, was dank, more foul-smellin cattle. And that ain’t nothin to fear. Just hold yer breath around ‘em if ya got to work ‘em. So I didn’t give ‘em another thought. And I didn’t even bother tellin Coors and Coors Light about ‘em, ‘cause why get ‘em riled up over smelly cows?
One day, a real good horse came back from a pointless pleasure ride with his eyes bugged clean out of his head. He was tall, too, taller than me, which ain’t hard to be. So he saw ‘em over the wall, so he said, as he disregarded his rider and stopped at our corral-gate. And his reputation was solid enough I even believed him, a little.
They was “pack cattle,” he claimed, on account of their person told his person somethin like “all-pack-a” lot of … somethin with ‘em. He understood they was meant to pack wool, but we ain’t got sheep on the County Island. Then he supposed maybe they could pack hides as easy as wool, and most of the hides around here reside upon us horses. Thus, it seemed real clear to him we was all set to be skinned soon, and packed away by the new, dank and foul pack cattle. You can see how that got him worked up.
What’d they look like? I inquired. Was they cows?
Jiggin in place, and with the froth beginning to drop from the bit in his mouth from frettin, he said he didn’t get a real clear look, but they was spindly and underfed. With real tall necks and no proper cow tails to speak of, and they was all standin on the alert on their tall stick legs, and starin back at him like he was the devil, not them. Or maybe they’d seen the devil behind him. That’s when he turned to bolt, he said, only his rider caught wind of it by way of her spurs and reins before he could run home to beat the devil.
Those was not no cows, he snorted, not even them fancy-breed cows. I pretended to know what fancy-breed cows is. I only know the normal kind.
How many are they? I asked.
Too many to count, he champed on his bit some more.
I had more questions, but his rider was set on beatin the dark back home, never mind the devil, so off they went. Plus people get nervous when us horses spend too much time conversin, like they know no good comes of it much.
Well now, cows ain’t devils.
People don’t wear horse hide, nor pack it anywhere.
If they do, surely it ain’t enough horse hide to warrant particular pack cattle for that sole purpose? And at least they’re polite enough not to wear it around actual horses that still got their hides attached. Unlike how they wear cow around cow. But that’s cow, not horse.
It was all crazy horse-talk. The cool wind whistled around my own ears. I shook my head to clear it out.
But the horse that said it wasn’t crazy, was he? He’d never been crazy before. Did the pack cattle drive him loco? If he went loco, could I?
I still ain’t never seen an all-pack-a cow, and I never hope to see one, but I’ll be the bravest ol’ ranch horse I can be if I ever do. They can’t be worse than javelinas.
And his description made no sense at all. Sounds like he was mixin up a sheep, with a cow, with a deer, all in one critter. I hope this is one of those many times when another horse told me somethin pointless that I thusly retold, which ends up bein entirely pointless and not worth repeatin again.
But, this here’s the County Island, so a horse never knows.
In my experience, people like to shoot stuff. Even more so if it flies and they can shoot it out of the sky, or at least the bushes.
It must make ‘em feel proud and happy, like when one of us horses kicks out a fence board because we can. It ain’t good for the fence board nor what gets shot, but it’s good for the one that started it, I reckon.
I offered to let the bucket gal shoot lots of stuff lots of times, but she never took me up on it, and so I hardly ever offer anymore. Still, sometimes we ride past brush that’s so chock full of dove-birds makin prime rustle-noises that I’m obliged to stop dead in my tracks to wait and see if she feels like drawin on ‘em. She never does, though. I don’t think she carries, but a horse could be wrong. Like when we used to round up bad beagle-dogs and chase rabbits, nobody ever shot those, neither. There was a time it confused the bucket gal when I stopped for doves, but I couldn’t of made it more clear. When it finally dawned on her, she patted my neck and told me good boy, but no, and off we rode, with no dead doves tied to my saddle horn at all. I didn’t get it, but I don’t get a lot here. I only wish I could convey to her now how bad I want her to take out the real bad birds we got on the County Island, by any means necessary. Not just for me, but for everyhorse. What I ain’t sure of is how to make a person know it. It took long enough for her to catch on about the doves and even though I laid out the right choice before her just like a whisperin-man would do for a horse, she chose wrong.
We’d been under siege by the buzzy birds for a long while. They ain’t a constant threat. But they’re persistent buggers. Back when us horses first heard and saw the buzzy birds, we thought they was a swarm of bees. That’s the sound they make, like a horse is about to get stung a thousand times over and ought to cut and run. What they look like is a big, black shiny flyin thing, kinda bird-like with about four wing protrusions. Birds or no, they do fly. For the longest time, me, Original Coors and Coors Light had no idea what they was, even after we listened in on the bucket gal and carrot guy rantin about ‘em, dronin on and on in their talk about the things.
The problem is, they fly over us. And over a lot of the County Island horses. And all around some of the people-barns. They’re low and loud and I swear they’re bringin bee swarms with ‘em. They’re scary even to a solid old ranch horse, and loud, and the people say they like to spy on us. I don’t know what spy means but it don’t sound good. Mostly they’re a nuisance to the people and the cause of a whole lot of near spook-wrecks involvin County Island horses.
Here’s how they normally make their appearance to stage an attack, and here’s what I’m ponderin, when I got nothin better to ponder, which seems to be happenin a lot lately.
That is to say, what’s worse and weirder is they ain’t got the ability to fly on their own but they’re completely reined in and made to work devious patterns by people. That’s what to be a drone means, to be controlled completely and made to drone on and on, around and around doin the same thing all the time with no will of your own. I reckon there’s a whole lotta unsuspectin arena horses that’s really drones. Surely they don’t drone around and around like that of a horse’s own volition, especially the good western horses. They’re bein a good solid listenin horse, and then there’s bein a drone. Those arena western horses is drones.
Anyhow, I been attemptin to stop in my tracks when we’re besieged by a drone, to get the bucket gal’s attention to take aim at ‘em. But she thinks now I’m drone-broke ad that’s why I stop, ‘cause she thinks I’m being good. Well, I am bein good, and I am drone-broke, but I also want her to actually break the damned drones.
And I know where their bad drone people come from now, too. They’re from Lisa the Bad Beagle’s ranch, and they don’t care none if they spook a horse nor ruffle the County Island’s people’s feathers nor privacy. I wish I could tell the bucket gal, but it ain’t easy for a horse to tell a person about a bad beagle. Sometimes when Coors Light tries to make a point to me, he starts off by sayin “see also.” And so as regards the Lisa beagle house, see also all the time I went out with the bad beagle hunt club and how little us horses could do to tell the people how they ought to round up the dogs proper. See also, it plumb can’t be done.
Turns out, County Island people got a whole lotta rules around shootin and what and where they can shoot. It was news to me, too. And that’s the only reason I can foresee why nobody’s shot ‘em out of the clear blue sky. They ain’t likely to leave on their own, ‘cause they can’t, bein controlled as they are. And the people ain’t inclined to stop. Seems us horses have got to adapt to survive here or else get driven loco by the bad bee-buzz drone-birds. That means we’re also likely to have a whole lot more loco horses on the County Island. Sucks to be them, sucks more for their people, and it sucks even for me, when I got to be rode around ‘em.
The sweet-talkin but evil vet-lady’s had been comin around for a while and jabbin my neck with what Coors Light claims is called “adequate legend.” I often try not to listen when he talks, though. He said all the finest prancey horses get poked with this adequate legend all the time. If there’s even a tiny sweet grain of truth in that, I hope it ain’t part of some plot to prancify me, ‘cause that ain’t never gonna happen as long as I still got my hooves touchin the top side of the dirt. They failed to turn me into a mare with their esta-gin mare juice, and they will fail to make me prance. Unrelated entirely, my ol hocks was feelin good and the horseshoer-man said I stood real quiet with my hind feet hitched up restin on his hoof stand to get trimmed. Holdin my hoof up’s easier than it’s been for a long time.
All I done for a long time now is get my neck poked, and get made to eat more feed than an old horse can stuff in his entire mouth. The last part’s horse heaven. Maybe I was finally a full retired horse.
I vaguely thought I heard our own bucket gal say she got poked in the neck, or the back, or some other people-part unbeknownst to a horse, by a vet-like person. Now that I think on it, maybe it was her back. She must have a saddle fit problem, but I ain’t never seen a person wear a saddle nor do I want to.
But I was stuffed full of feed, and my hocks was happy, if this was retirement. County Island folks ain’t never happy whether a horse is skinny or fat. For a long while, the bucket gal thought Coors Light needed more feed, and she was stuffin him full with all kinds of pellets and grain, meanwhile his brother Original Coors got his rations halved and he had to stand next to Coors Light half-starved while Coors Light complained he was so full he could hardly stand to eat more. Then Coors Light got just right, but Coors got too fat, so she flipped feed on ‘em. I always been left out of that crazy until now when I’m gettin all the extra food shoved at me. If my job is now to eat, I got to be a good horse and do my job.
So I’d been gettin fed a lot, but late, and by the carrot guy who don’t wake up before the sun’s out. And then a real nice stranger lady came and cleaned our corral and fussed over us every day. I figured maybe she was meant to be our new cowgirl, on account of I ain’t had a change in a real long while, not since before the County Island when I left the ranch, and I thought maybe she was the gal come to prep us for the auction sale barn. It was gonna suck goin to auction now, at my wise age. But she wasn’t. And the bucket gal was still there, but she only said howdy to us, then disappeared kinda slow back into the people-barn. We still got bathed with the snake-hose. We rolled, we slept, we ate, we rubbed some of our manes out and also our tails on account of we itch in the hot time…
I wondered idle prancified thoughts such as how much stall rest does a person need from gettin their back worked on by a person-vet. Us horses only require three days’ stall-jail time. Likely people ain’t as tough as us horses.
It all makes the County Island real quiet. Maybe too quiet, even if I do like quiet.
But the bucket gal’s been back around more recently. I even got rode for a short spell, and it was nice. She set to cleanin my bridle real good like it needed it, and cleanin and organizin all the people-crap inside her people-crap horse-tack room like maybe things was rampin up again. But I handle fine when my bridle’s dirty. Maybe the too quiet will change soon, now that I’m feelin stuffed full of food, and my hawks is happier in spite of the adequate legend, and seems like she’s been sprung from people-stall rest. Whether it will or it won’t, seems I still got a solid job here eatin as much as I can.
Also, I like to think I’m more than a adequate legend horse, whatever that is.
Once there was a big, black rumbly people-car drivin real slow around the County Island most afternoons. By the time I paid notice to it, I guess it’d be goin on for a while ‘cause even the bucket gal noticed, and people generally ain’t as quick to notice strange things that change or move as good as us horses do.
We got mostly people-cars that go too fast, but we got slow ones, too, so that ain’t nothin for a horse to notice. Most of ‘em don’t look like they’re bein part drove by a big ol’ dog, though.
When I bothered to really look, I saw the dog was sittin where the person what drives the car also sits, and it was ridin upon her lap like it was the boss dog, with its whole big yellow County Island dog-head and floppin pink County Island dog tongue stuck out and wavin around, which dogs like to do.
So the strange part was the dog head driver and the slow part combined. Back and forth they’d go… Up the road, then down the road. Round the bend, then back again. Sometimes they’d stop by some brush and then a rabbit’d fly out, and the dog would give a woof. But they wasn’t huntin rabbits, ‘cause then they’d move slowly on. They slowed down past the dry creekbed washes to have a look at whatever might be washed up that day. They also slowed down past horses, mainly me and my horse-buddies Coors and Coors Light.
One time, they slowed way down alongside me, on account of if you’re gonna ride next to me, ya got to go real slow. And the dog lolled his tongue at me and grinned while he wagged his whole entire fluffy big yellow body all over the driver-lady’s lap. And also her face. He was the happiest ol’ dog in the world, right there.
And the bucket gal, I suppose to her credit, asked a thing that never woulda occurred to a horse. “Are you driving him around to look at things because he can’t go for walks anymore?”
And through the downright blizzard of waggy dog hair flyin in her face, the driver lady said yes. And the dog wagged harder if it was even possible. And then the bucket gal cooed and oohed and awwed like a horse ain’t never heard before nor since, like to her it also was the best thing in the world. But how can anythin be the best thing in the world if it ain’t got at least one horse in it? So it thusly occurred to me.
One, old dogs ain’t even got to walk no more on the County Island. I also seen a smaller dog sittin up high and mighty in a basket on a rolly-bike bein carried around by his bike-rider person. And a dog in a people-baby-colt roller which is called a stroller. I thought that stuff was strange.
And two, maybe that’s how I’ll go ridin next, as long as the people is losin their minds regardin us animals. I’ll bet a bale of alfalfa the bucket gal’s got a like-minded plan in store for me.
First, when you’re a younger colt, it’s bein ponyed alongside a steady older amigo to show ya the lead ropes. Then ya get fit with the saddle and bit. Then they learn ya to load in the rollin horse-box and ya go out and work for a livin. If you’re lucky and ya get retired to the County Island, then eventually ya get a new-fangled ramp so ya ain’t even got to step up to go ridin no more. Maybe eventually they just roll ya around with your head stuck out the drop-down window, catchin a breeze and stoppin to admire all the pretty, pretty cows in the field?
Or maybe I could stay home. I really like the look of slow, long nap. Or a slowly ate long, good meal.
Old dogs like nappin and eatin too. Why can’t people let sleepin dogs, and horses, lie?
Coors Light gets bored. He could go sight-seein ridin instead of me. Original Coors gets bored a lot too, but not like his brother. A bored Coors Light is a bothersome Coors Light. When the bucket gal don’t ride him for a long spell, she ought to at least drive him around real slow with his head stuck out the white rollin horse-box window to give him somethin to do. It wouldn’t be good nor purposeful, but it’d take up some of his time. Otherwise, he sets to thinkin. And a thinkin AND bored Coors Light is the worst Coors Light of all.
Here’s the short list of some stuff Coors Light’s got himself into when he ain’t got nothin better to do.
Well, I already told about his handiwork on his stall shade.
So, the dog gets to drive around. It’s a near daily thing, now. Sometimes when he passes by he barks, hey horse! So I flatten my ears back at him, hey dog! It’s how we talk now.
I wonder if he gets to pick where he goes. Horses can’t pick where we go when we get inside the rollin horse-box, but if we could… That’s as crazy as an old farm goat bangin his head around stuck in a bucket talk.
I ought to be ashamed of myself for thinking such idle thoughts, and the dog ought to be ashamed of himself for not even tryin to walk no more. I walk slow now, but I still got my get up and go. Like the people say when they train us up, ya always got to look for the try. And I do always try. Dogs in general is fairly shameless, though, so I’ll just pin my ears and nod my head when he goes by with his tongue out and his tail beatin a happy tune on the rolly car-dashboard. But if he can get a human to do all his biddin, then more power to that dog, I guess. A horse has always got to roll with the changes, no matter how ridiculous they may be.
Somethin strange and terrible, but mostly strange, happened on the County Island, but the main point is, it turned out OK. Generally I try not to tell an endin before tellin a beginnin, but, well, I’m still here. Some of ya might care to know that.
Things weren’t sittin right with me, and I’m a horse that’s generally alright with the world. Maybe I didn’t tell nobody about it for a while. I don’t really recall. But when I did tell the bucket gal loud and clear, by throwin my own self to the ground not once, but twice, and rollin while gruntin like a pig, instead of helpin me out — she told the tiny telephone that lives in her pocket to fetch the sweet-talkin but evil vet lady!
I knew I was in trouble many people-hours into the night, when the vet lady was still there and they’d already tried all kinds of ridiculous things that didn’t work. Her and the bucket gal was starin both at me, at the end of my lead rope, and at the stars and the moon, and one of ‘em, and it don’t matter which one, said, “We should’ve ordered a pizza!” I know what a people-pizza is and I also know there’s nothin it could do to help an old ranch horse with a real bad colicky stomach ache. In fact, I know it gives people colic sometimes, and they eat it anyway. Leave it to people to think about food in times of trouble, Maybe they’re more horse-like than I ever suspected.
No pizza came. That was good. Also, pardon my french, no horse manure came. That wasn’t good. I felt good enough to eat a cookie and was grateful it wasn’t a foul pizza. I pinned my ears at Original Coors ‘cause someone had to. And, finally, they left me for what remained of the night.
The next early mornin, the vet lady was back, doin more things to a horse who already ain’t right. Eventually, the bucket gal led me over to the rollin white horse-box. This was surely no time to take me for a pointless pleasure trail ride, but off we went.
Only we went to a place called a horse “hospital,” but it looked like a regular stall-barn. And it was overrun with a whole herd of sweet-talkin but evil horse ladies. It must be the ranch where they’re all foaled or somethin. And they poked me in the neck, and they tied me to the roof of a horse-stall with a funny lead rope that somehow poured funny water straight into a horse? None of it made sense. And I overheard they was makin pictures of my insides, which is ridiculous on account of their picture-taker was on the outside of me, and my insides are on my inside. They seemed real nice for bein evil vet ladies, and they meant well, but, well… They had some doubtful ideas. My stomach still hurt.
The bucket gal seemed real worried. And the carrot guy came, too. Also some other amigos I know showed up to say howdy to me. That was nice and all, but I didn’t like it, or like bein there even though the barn stall had cool air in it in the middle of the hot time, but there wasn’t much I could do about any of it. So I let whatever was gonna happen, happen.
And in spite of bein tied to a water lead rope hung from the ceilin, I started feelin better. Finally someone offered me some food that seemed like maybe I’d like to eat it. All the other food looked like food I might want to eat, but my insides was tellin me I didn’t want it.
After I ate, I pooped.
You ain’t never seen a bunch of people so entirely overjoyed by a horse poopin before. You woulda thought maybe I’d saved the ranch’s whole damned cattle herd from runnin directly off a cliff the way they carried on about one horse poopin. The bucket gal even looked like she might cry.
They kept me a couple more people-days for more of their strange people-reasons. They said they wanted to make sure I knew how to eat and poop, like I ain’t been doin a proper job of it for 29 people-years or at least as long as I can recall.
The best part was when I got to come home. The Coors brothers was even excited to see me. Original Coors said he didn’t even want to eat while I was gone, ‘cause he wanted to keep an eye on the road for me comin back. and I called him a liar, ‘cause he always wants to eat. I got a shower hose-bath, and then I rolled and rolled in the warm, soft sand. And then I loped off for a few steps, to express my happiness at finally bein returned home to where things made more sense, for the County Island, anyway.
Things ain’t entirely normal yet. The bucket gal shoves foul tubes of stuff she calls medicine in my mouth like about three times a day. And my feed’s got some new stuff in it, but it tastes alright, I guess. She’s got more worry lines over her eyes than normal when she looks at me, but I think I feel fine. If I don’t, she ought to know I’ll let her know, even if the prior experience was mighty questionable overall.
I got my own bucket with the half-broke handle on account of I like to shove it around. I got my Ayrab brother horses. I got my warm sand, and my best shady tree. I got hay, even a li’l bit more alfalfa than normal. I got to go for some hand-walks, which is when a horse gets walked like a County Island dog. And I got to go for a couple pointless pleasure rides, with pit stops to graze the crunch beans from my favorite bean tree.
And there’s been no more talk of force-feedin me a pizza. That’s likely the best part.
It always comes out in the wash.
That’s what I like to say to myself or any horse that’ll listen, every time I get rode through the wash – which is like a dry creek bed, for those unfortunate horses that don’t know ‘cause they never get rode outside the safe space of their own arenas.
Yep. It always comes out in the wash. And when it does, there ain’t much a good horse can do about it.
Let me explain your options.
I was bein rode through the wash and we was almost back home after makin a big and pointless loop around it on a cool and breezy evenin, with just enough wind to tickle my mane hairs, but not enough to blow all the less delicate smells that surround the County Island into my nostrils.
And then, it came out, in the wash. Like it always does. Like it or not.
I neither heard nor smelled it comin. I reckon that was a good thing, although even if it was a bad thing, it wouldn’ta made one lick of difference from a grumpy pig’s tongue to me.
Horses need to know a couple of important things here. First, the story your own dam told ya back when you were knee-high to the ropin donkey about the horse that got ate up whole by wild pigs when he stuck his nose in their business likely ain’t true. Far as I can tell, no horse actually personally knows another horse who got ate by pigs.
Second, javelinas ain’t pigs. That fact ain’t likely to save ya, in general, though. But the flavor of pigs we got in these parts is known as javelinas. I told about ‘em back when I told about the piggish behavior, thusly:
“When you come across a sleepin javelina, it’s always best to let it lie, lest it come back to bite you, literally. Those pigs are grumpy, most especially if ya call ’em pigs to their ugly pig faces. And they have lots of sharp and pointy teeth they ain’t shy about snappin at any part of a horse they can snap at.”
They’ll also gore a unsuspectin dog clear into the next county without so much as blinkin one tiny pig eye.
So your first and best option is always let ‘em lie. But now ya likely know that the “it” I intended to tell about from the start is a javelina-pig. They always come out in the wash when they do come out, without fail.
Option two? Turn tail and run. This ain’t recommended, no matter how good your intentions is to save yourself and maybe also your rider. Javelinas can run purty darned fast. ‘Cause they can’t see real good, their motto’s always attack first, ask questions never. So a horse has got to ask himself, how fast do I feel like runnin today? Is my rider likely to spin with me, or without me, and what’s the consequence of savin my hide, losin my rider and then havin my rider catch back up to me and maybe get after me in ways a horse don’t like bein got after? Sometimes riders is grateful for your efforts, sometimes they ain’t. Are ya a lucky horse? I try not to rely on luck, myself.
So your other option, which is my own option, is obviously the best option. It ain’t without its own risks, though. Here’s what I did, the last time it came out in the wash.
As I was sayin, I neither heard nor smelled it comin that night. I also didn’t catch that it had two more bandido amigos with it. I was ambushed!
Outnumbered, and also feelin kinda slow, I’d run out of options. It was too late for letting ‘em lie, and runnin is for the younger, more flight-prone horses.
So I went with option number three, which is stand your ground and make like a tree. Feel your own hooves grow roots deep into the ground. The grumpy pigs is most grumpy at things that move, and that’s when they’ll most often make a move on ya. It ain’t generally a recommended option, but sometimes, like this time, it worked.
The first grumpy pig – and I do enjoy callin ‘em pigs knowin full well they don’t like it – jumped into the wash to try and stare me down with its blind pig stare. I trained my ears on it but I didn’t budge. Then it disappeared back where it came from. I heard a rustle!
Two more of ‘em made a mad run for it across the wash directy in front of me, and made a mad dash for the open range.
Without warnin, the first, biggest one was back. It ran across the wash, then stopped to face me. But I was busy makin like a palo verde tree.
Then it ambled toward me.
Then it stopped. I still didn’t catch wind of it, for which I gave silent thanks. Then it ambled back.
Then it leaped into the wash to stop and stare some more. Likely it smelled horse, but it couldn’t really see horse. There was no horse. Just me, Whiskey, a proper tree. After at least 20 picture-clicky noises (which seemed real excessive to me) from the tiny telephone that lives in the bucket gal’s back pocket, it finally, thankfully wandered away from me, the plain ol’ clicky palo verde planted here in the middle of the wash right where I always grew.
The bucket gal reined me in the far direction from home, and I had to agree. We was real copacetic on not seein no more pigs, although I had been prepared to be a tree all night if that’s what I needed to do. I’d never been more relieved to take the long way home.
If ya keep stock still and keep the fearful snortin sounds on the inside of yer nose and not the outside, a pig can’t see nor hear ya. There’s nothin you can do about people and their clicky sounds, though. I’m lucky that didn’t get us both gored or worse. I aim to be a good horse and think only good-horse thoughts, but at times like that I got to wonder if the bucket gal’s got a brain between her ears at all.
Be brave, stand tall and remember a wash full of javelina-pigs, or anythin else, is only as scary as a horse makes it. Keep it together between your own ears, and whatever may come out in the wash won’t hurt ya. Also, some good luck don’t hurt.