I like to live my life by what’s called the Code of the West. I’m a simple horse, but, let me tell you, I did not get to this age by bein’ a stupid horse. The Code says the strongest survive — well, among the other things it says. It was a daily fact of life on the ranch where I was raised. It ain’t personal. It’s business, alright. The Code says a horse has got to do what a horse has got to do.
And that’s why, yesterday afternoon, when I was on what’s called a “trail ride” on the island here with my city cousin, a fellow palomino, although a bit of a prancified palomino, who sometimes goes by the name of Mr. Blondie, and I saw them enormous, wolf-sized dawgs headin’ straight for us bein’ chased by a scrawny little cowpoke wavin’ their leashes like they was tiny little lassos not even big enough to rope a calf much less a pair of snarlin’, salivatin’, rabid wolf-dogs, I did what any good ranch horse worth his salt block would do.
I quiet-like, real casual-like, side-stepped around behind Mr. Blondie, through the brush, behind the tree, in order to let them wolf-dawgs take him out, instead of me.
And I made sure I mumbled under my breath to him, like we was cowboys in a bar fight like my cowboys used to get into, “Don’t worry, son. I got your back!” So he’d be reassured, you know?
Because that’s the kind of horse I am.
He was reassured right up ‘til the pack was on him. He was standin’ brave and tall like a palomino will do, and then his human lady-rider let fly with her “huntin’ whip” (although I don’t know what ever she hunts, but that’s another story) and went to crackin’ it all around, sendin’ the wolf-dawgs and their cowpoke yelpin’ far, far into the distance under the desert sky.
I really had to chuckle at my buddy Mr. Blondie. But I didn’t, because, like I said, that’s the kind of horse I am. But if he coulda seen his face…!
Code of the West. Don’t you forget it.