It seems to me people on the county island got too many things they’re always tryin to keep track of. You already read my opinion on multi-taskin <https://countyisland.wordpress.com/2010/02/17/multi-taskin/>. Multi-taskin ain’t a good idea, in the long run, but the people on the county island persist in tryin to do it. And then they lose stuff. Important stuff. All the time. And they lose stuff that’s important for us horses, that’s the main problem. If they lose their own people stuff, that ain’t my business, and I’d prefer not to hear about it any more than I already do. No, I do not know where you set your “sunglasses case” this time, nor do I care, so why don’t ya quit askin a horse such nonsense and give me another cookie, or give me cookies while you’re askin and lookin? I thought you knew how to multi-task.
Horses never lose the stuff that matters. We always know exactly where the food is and what time it should be comin. We know where the water tub is and how full it’s supposed to be (full to the top all the time in the hot time, and if it’s got bees swarmin in it, you put your nose down deep and blow bubbles at the bees, and it pisses ‘em off momentarily and makes ‘em fly away so you can drink in peace, unless you’re Original Coors, in which case you get your nose stung anyway, and I might chuckle at ya). We horses know where our feed bucket’s supposed to be, all the time. It ain’t no secret how much I love bucket time.
My bucket has got a mixin spoon that goes along with it, that mixes up my rice bran and my pellets and all my supplements, which is what keeps a horse supple. So when I see my gal’s got that spoon in her hand walkin toward the feed shed, I know bucket time is upon us, preparin to provide pure perfection for my pony-fied palate.
How’d ya like that? I been learnin new vocabulary this summer.
So one day, our gal was lookin around, all out of sorts, like, near the water thing where she mixes our supplements, and she asked me, “Whiskey, where’s your spoon today?”
I nickered, and said I seen the rabbit take off with it. But she didn’t listen. The people never do. You think with all the effort we make to learn to understand how they talk, not to mention tryin to become fluent in understandin cow, and dog, and coyote (which, if you know some dog, you can get by passable in coyote) and all manner of other critter talk, they’d bother to pick up a little horse along the way.
So I nickered some more, and I shook my head from side to side at her, so my ears flopped this way and that. Rabbit! See the ears? Rabbit! I said again.
“Well, I don’t know, either!” she said.
And then I got worried, ‘cause a bucket needs a spoon, otherwise I’m pretty sure there can’t be bucket time.
So I bucked and I hopped up and down kinda in place, like a rabbit will do, and shook my head and my ears at her some more, and I squealed right loud, Rabbit, dammit! Hop, hop! What part of ‘rabbit’ dontcha understand?
“I know, I know,” she sing-songed at me, “Don’t throw a fit—I’ll hurry up.”
In the meantime, the rabbit herself showed up, as she always does at bucket time. She likes to stand underneath my bucket and wait to nibble what I drop on the ground, on account of I have a loose tooth, on account of my age, which is old enough, thank you for askin.
And the rabbit had nothin to say at all about the missin spoon, just sat there twitchin her whiskers and blinkin. Rabbits is real good at lookin cute and innocent. Then our gal reappeared outa the people barn, I guess you’d call it, with another spoon, and all was well at bucket time, that time.
The next night, it happened again. The second spoon was gone.
This time, I didn’t bother tryin. Me and Original Coors and Coors Light, and the rabbit, just stood there, all of us waitin by our sorely empty buckets while our gal went lookin around for spoon number two. I shot the rabbit a real dirty look, and she blinked and twitched her whiskers. I wondered how many spoons our gal intended on losin, and more important, how many more of ‘em she had before, I hated to even contemplate it, she ran out of spoons and the ability to feed us entirely.
She came back with spoon number three, frownin hard and studyin her surroundins, and then again, all was well at bucket time.
The next night, I glared at the rabbit before bucket time, pinnin my ears flat on my head, and I stamped my front feet hard in the dirt to remind her each of my own hooves was bigger than her own rabbit head. Not that I necessarily would, mind you. But there comes a time when a horse does have to put his hoof down. So I cut her a deal. I would dribble some more pellets on the ground for her, and go so far as to share my bucket, which, if you know me by now, is a positively huge deal to me, if she’d stop stealin spoons, since she fessed up she was stealin ‘em to lick ‘em clean.
And the third spoon stayed put.
A time later, our gal was pokin around with her people chores outside when I heard her suddenly laugh out loud. And there she stood by the bushes where the rabbit likes to hide, with two nibbled-on wooden spoons in her hand, holdin ‘em up to the sunlight and admirin the parts that had been chewed upon or that was missin.
Now that we got two more spoons at our disposal, I tend to think I should get more buckets, but it don’t seem to work that way. Still, I rattle my empty bucket any time I hear the people in the yard, in case maybe they want to take my hint. And I keep a watchful eye on that rabbit. Lately I seen her single-mindedly runnin back and forth from the yard to a nest she’s makin out back, carryin big white tufts of fluffy fabric in her mouth that she says she found on the “patio” in the “furniture.” I keep thinkin that can’t be good, but since it don’t involve me or my bucket, I also don’t rightly care.