I’ve been noticing for a while now that the people that live on the county island obviously ain’t got enough real work to do, so they sometimes make up what’s called activities or hobbies to give ‘em something else to do that makes ‘em feel like they’re contributing. “Jogging” is one such activity. Barenekkid jogging, which I’ll get to shortly, is entirely another.
Jogging is what people do when they ain’t got a good horse to ride, and also they ain’t got sense enough to stand still or lie down and take a nap. It’s different than when us horses decide to kick up our heels and play for a few minutes. This would be, for an example, like one of the prancing horses deciding that he didn’t prance enough already all week long, and going out to the prancing arena and “schooling” himself for an hour, without his rider, so he could work on his “cardio” and his “fitness.” That ain’t gonna happen, am I right, prancey horses?
The people, they jog past our corral all day long, some of them in the early morning hours before they’ve even been tossed their breakfast, and then there’s a steady flow of ‘em going past all afternoon and evening long. If they had proper ears that they could pin flat against their heads to tell the world how mad they are to be jogging, all them joggers would pin their ears at me. I ain’t never seen a happy jogger like the way horseback riders, and people walking their dogs, or even people riding their noisy monster-horse-machines called “motorcycles,” are happy, smiling and waving. Sometimes I think they must be running from something, you know what I mean?
So I kinda don’t trust joggers. Original Coors shares my opinion on that. He always wants to ask ‘em: What are you running away from so fast that all you had time to put on was, apparently, your underwear instead of your proper horseback riding clothes, and – most important – did the thing you’re running away from eat your horse? But I don’t know if we want to know the answers.
Now, the barenekkid jogger is real, first of all. If you know me at all by now, you know I’m an honest horse. I couldn’t make this up if I tried. He’s kind of legendary around these parts, for his parts, if you understand what I’m saying. There’s horses whose sires and dams remember being told about him by their sires and dams. I’ve seen him myself more times than I’d like to recall.
The barenekkid jogger jogs through the rough desert where us horses go trail riding, wearing only a sun hat and some horseshoe-people-shoes called jogging shoes, jogging through all the places where a horse is likely to get scratched and poked by all manner of pokey things, including brush and cactuses that’s got names like Cat’s Claws and Prickly Pear and Jumpin’ Cholla, which ought to be your first clue. We got thick hides and a haircoat to protect us, plus we can always run our riders’ legs into the pokey things first. And most of all, we got common sense. It ain’t called horse sense by accident.
A barenekkid person is just soft and pink like a newborn javalina, with lots of loose bits flopping around, with no natural protection to speak of, all exposed to the sun and cactus, and rattlesnakes and scorpions, and Gila monsters, too. Now, that ain’t right in the head as far as I can tell, plus from what I hear my gal and her friends saying, there ain’t nobody on the county island who truthfully wants to see any of that.
So, why does he do it? Hard to say. From what I can decipher, it’s something he’s actually aiming to do on purpose. It’s not like he’s being chased by wolves, and didn’t even have time to at least put on his underwear like the other joggers wear. I also heard him called a “nature lover,” and the people also mostly don’t seem to believe that he’s a “pervert,” whatever that is. But I still can’t figure what loving nature’s got to do with running through pokey things in the desert nekkid like you’ve got an addled mind.
I ain’t seen him for a little while now, which is alright by me, but I can’t help but wonder if he finally got himself stuck or bit well and good, and in an unfortunate location. And by location I don’t mean the desert.