Every summer, me, Original Coors and Coors Light all take a ride in the rollin horse box to what’s called sleepaway camp for horses on the county island, where we live for about a week while our guy and gal do a people-activity called a “vacation.” Camp is located at the place where the prancin lady lives, who has Moo the cow <https://countyisland.wordpress.com/2010/01/28/rainy-nights-and-mad-cows/> (not to be confused with the horse I nicknamed Moo <https://countyisland.wordpress.com/2010/05/26/jump-start/>), which is where Coors Light goes for his weekly lessons in prancin, if you can believe that, ‘cause I guess even though he’s 16 years old now, he still ain’t entirely broke to ride yet. I guess learnin to prance in a purty circle takes a lot more time than learnin how to work for a livin workin cattle. Yeah, that’s sarcasm, alright.
Me and the Coors brothers got into it real good one time when they was tryin to have me believe there’s horses who spend their whole lives learnin how to prance proper-like. They was tellin me tall tales about horses trainin up through the many “levels” of prancin, and that Coors had done some “first prancin level” and Coors Light had done “third level prancin.” They claimed their sire was a actual “national champion” in the very highest level of prancin, as if anyone would give a horse an award for somethin as pointless as prancin in a circle, and I snorted real hard at that. But when Coors Light tried to tell me he himself had been a national prancin champion, well, that was when I backed up to him and double-barrel cow-kicked him and called him a liar, and then all hell broke loose.
But I got to be careful about too much brawlin and leapin around these days, even though I still always win. All them years of workin for a livin’s been hard on my old joints and such. And so it was this year at sleepaway camp. Whenever the hot time turns into the hot and humid time, I always feel the stiffness in my bones. This year, that stiffness got kinda bothersome before we even went to camp.
And then, when we got to camp, there’s always the summer games to be played. I suppose I almost could believe in all the prancin nonsense Coors and Coors Light keep feedin me, considerin what I see at the games. On games day, horses and people get all dressed up in red, white and blue finery and have a competition to see whose horse can jump the tallest fence, or the smallest row of buckets on the ground, or who can run a relay the fastest from one end of the ridin arena to the other, or who can trot the smoothest while their rider carries a “egg and spoon,” or who looks the shiniest in red, white and blue. Now, the three of us never get to play for real, since our people ain’t there to ride us, but later in the afternoon, after the summer games is officially over, the three of us always have our very own games out in the paddock. And I may have slightly overdone it this year.
But ya see, Original Coors started trash-talkin how he could have jumped the tallest jump in the arena they had set for the high-jump competition, and I knew he couldn’t, on account of he’s got the no-vicular in his hooves, and mostly on account of he’s a wuss. And Coors Light bragged his trot was smoother than all them other horses in the “egg and spoon” contest, on account of the B.S. of him bein a national prancin champion. So naturally, I had to one-up ‘em.
So I started trottin real smooth in circles all around ‘em in the paddock and really extendin my front legs out as far as I could, flippin my toes up in the air like a prancey horse does. And then I kicked it up a notch to a full-steam gallop, and I tucked my back legs underneath me real hard and pushed off from the ground, and I leaped about as high as the top of the paddock fence straight up in the air over my imaginary high-jump, and right as my entire body was in the air and crestin the arc of my jump, I realized what ya might call the gravity of my situation: The higher the leap, the harder the landin.
Oof. That rightly hurt, but I cowponyed up took it like a ranch horse.
So we finally get home from camp, and next thing I know, I suddenly got the horse vet lady stuck to me like a fly on fly paper. And our gal keeps fussin and worryin and tryin to make me eat “bute.” If cookies and carrots and granola bars and grain is all horse candy, then bute is pure horse poison.
From what I overheard while the horse vet lady and my gal was makin me stand out in the sun and the heat and hold this leg up this way, and that leg up that way, and trot over here, then trot over there until I thought my gal was gonna have heatstroke — which humans seem to be prone to ‘cause they do addled things like run around in the heat when they should be nappin in the shade like horses do — what we got around here is a case of the bad hawks. Specifically, they seem to think I got the bad hawks.
I know what a hawk is, of course. What horse hasn’t seen hawks flyin and huntin around in the sky before? But I still ain’t real sure why the horse vet lady would think I got anythin to do with hawks, much less bad ones. And, how bad could a hawk possibly be? Seems while they was busy contortin my limbs this way and that, they also took special pictures called x-rays of the bad hawks they seen, ‘cause they was lookin at the pictures and talkin all serious all about how very bad those hawks really was. I wished I coulda seen the pictures. I didn’t even notice any hawks in the air above us that day. So I really am kinda dyin of curiosity to see a bad hawk now.
And then the rest of the conversation was all about the hawks, instead of me. How do we treat a bad hawk, should we ice a bad hawk (!) or hose it off with cold water twice a day (they really ain’t gonna like that), what kinda supplements is good for feedin to bad hawks, etcetera. They was even talkin about feedin bute to the hawks. The next time I see a hawk, I really do got to try and warn ‘em about this, I think.