There’s a nice fella I see here on the county island around about every eight weeks or so who keeps all our hooves lookin’ right purty, and he likes to tell a story or three while he’s busy workin’. I can’t help but listen in, even over the sound of the country music blarin’ from his radio and all the bangin’ on his forge, ‘cause he’s such a doggoned good storyteller. I can appreciate a person who knows how to tell a tale like I do: in a proper way.
Seems he done bought himself a fancy horse one time – not a prancified horse like the kind I told you about already, but a kind of a prancey western horse, called a “rainin’” horse. Rainin’ horses, from what I’ve learned, is all very well-trained to the word whoa, which I can also appreciate, because where I grew up on the ranch, one of the first lessons the cowboys teach you, whether you want to learn it or not, is that whoa means whoa, and go means go. No ifs, ands or bucks.
So, he put his fancy rainin’ horse in his big old rollin’ horse box and took it to a competition to show it off to all his buddies. He was lopin’ circles on his rainin’ horse in what they call the warm-up arena to get it ready to show it off for real, and lookin’ around to make sure the guys were all watchin’ him and seein’ how cool he looked in the saddle. They were all lookin’, and he did look cool. That was when his phone – you know, those little flat things that the people are always talkin’ to when they’re supposed to be payin’ attention to us horses? – which was in his back pocket, started makin’ that annoyin’ squawkin’ sound that they make, and without missin’ a stride in his rainin’ horse’s lopin’ circles, he kept one hand on the reins and pulled out his cell phone with the other hand, as cool as a cowboy can be, and he said to that phone, “’Lo?”
Next thing he knew, he was flyin’ over his horse’s ears and lyin’ in the dirt lookin’ up at that good rainin’ horse, whoaed right where he told him to whoa.
Y’know, every time I tell this story, I like it a little more.