A ranch horse has got to be resourceful. You learn early on in workin ranch life that you got to look out for yourself and be what’s called self-sufficient. The cowboys and ranch hands is only gonna look after ya so far, because they got other things on their minds like the cows and makin somethin called money, which is also called makin “a livin.” I ain’t never seen a money that I can recall, but I hear it’s important because this money thing is what also makes the hay for us horses. And hay is what allows us horses to live. So I think I really like money.
As an example of what I mean about this here resourcefulness, Original Coors once was tellin me a tale about a legendary mare he knew back in California that was named Montana, who had more worldly experience and horse sense then all them pleasure horses put together. I wish I coulda knew Montana back in her day. She sounds like she was my kinda horse. The Coors brothers both claim that horses in California don’t never see no snow nor hail. They don’t know the hardship of havin their only waterin hole frozen solid. And when somethin like that did happen one time, as Original Coors likes to tell, and the water tub was like a layer of solid ice on the top of it, the story goes that all the horses in the pasture was standin around snivelin and shiverin, likely to die of thirst outside in them bitter elements and all whinnyin and wishin that a human would come and save ‘em because California horses ain’t got no common sense. When the great Montana heard what the problem was, she rolled her eyes and pinned her ears, and with a heavy sigh she strode right through that throng of ninnies and smashed through the layer of ice with her nose. I hope she got a good, long drink and took her time before lettin any of them daises have a turn. That’s what I’m talkin about.
The county island’s got two types of weather mostly: nice, and hot. Well, we also got rainy, and windy, and occasionally a little bit muddy or maybe a tiny bit frosty, but I lump all that under nice. Of late we’ve experienced a whole lot of windy, which I don’t mind ‘cause this time of year the wind blows at all them palo verde tree blossoms, and blows all those sweet little yellow bits onto the ground so as I can savor every last one of ‘em. Those flowers, they do make me itch something fierce, which is called a “allergic reaction,” which people on the county island treat by likely tryin to kill an itchy horse by feedin him nasty “azium” and tryin to drown him with water and “medicated sham-poo.”
The only bad part about the wind is that oftentimes it blows our hay clear away before we can set to eatin it. And I heard our gal say, “There goes all my money blowin in the wind!” So I know I’m right on about the hay=money thing. Instead of lettin us starve on one of the most windy days, our gal came walkin out to our corral carryin our hay all wrapped up in fabricky containers that’s all solid except for a feedin hole where you pull out the hay to eat it. She hanged them hay bags along the fence for us. It was a right good system. The wind couldn’t get at the hay to blow it away, and us horses wouldn’t go without supper.
Well, a big gust of wind came and blowed Coors and Coors Light’s hay bags around, until they was hangin backwards on the fence, with the solid side facin them horses.
They both looked like they was gonna cry, makin big pouty faces. So I said real serious, and I really, truly did have to say it, because that’s the kind of horse I am, “Well, that’s it then. Once them hay bags is turned around, you can’t turn ‘em back. I guess you two are plumb outa luck, dinnerwise.”
And they believed me! I guess because they know I’m an honest horse.
I watched ‘em for several hours, still poutin and starin at the back sides of their hay bags, in between bites of my own hay. At one point, a wind did come and blow at my hay bag and spin it around, but I made sure Coors and Coors Light weren’t payin attention, and I flipped it back around with my nose before they even noticed.
When our gal came back long after dark to tell us good night, she made a huge cooin fuss over them both. “Poor baby” this and that, all while she was clearly noticin that my hay bag was not spun around, and I had eaten all my supper. And she turned their backs bag the proper way with the hay hole facin forward.
After she’d gone back inside the house, I let ‘em both eat in peace for a little while, anyway, before I walked off behind the ironwood tree and started laughin.