The female animal, of any kind, is likely to talk a lot. In my experience, anyway, which is considerable. Now, before I go gettin myself in trouble, let me say there’s plenty of geldings and stallions that can go on talkin at a great length too (and yes, I do know what’s a gelding and what’s a stallion; I was foaled on a ranch, y’know, and not yesterday), and this here applies to them, too. But it most assuredly don’t apply to me. I overheard I’m now bein regarded as what’s called a talkin animal, and thank y’all for the compliment, but that ain’t entirely so, because what I am is a deep-thinkin and bloggin animal, which is a quiet activity and don’t bother no one else on the County Island, unless they so choose to be bothered by it. I don’t go around yammerin at other horses all day long and likely borin ‘em to tears, like the mares next-door do. Or like Original Coors does, when me and Coors Light get taken out for a ride and he’s gotta stay at home all by himself and he carries on like a foal that thinks it’s lost its momma.
Original Coors, he thinks they’re awful purty, the mares next-door. Me, I dunno. Mares is mares. Next-door, they got a mostly grey one, and a brown one, and a tall one. And that’s more than I care to know about ‘em. I like to tease Original Coors by askin him, “So whatcha gonna do about it, stud muffin?” Seein as how we’re all geldings over here. But there’s three of us here, and there’s three of them on the other side of the wall. And all day long, they got to talk at me, and poke their noses over the top of the wall. Why me?
“Hey Whiskey, what are you doing over there? Are you going out riding again today? Are you?”
“Hey Whiskey, do you guys have alfalfa? We have alfalfa. How’s your alfalfa?”
“Hey Whiskey, are you trying to take a nap?”
“Hey Whiskey, so now what are you doing?”
And Original Coors encourages it. For every time they got to come over and ask another pointless question, he’s gotta stick his own neck out, literal-like, over the wall, and arch his neck to make himself look extra Ayraby, and he stretches up to try to make himself appear tall and lanky (which ain’t easy since he’s what’s called the opposite of tall and lanky), and tosses what little of a forelock he’s got, and makes goo-goo eyes and says, “Hi girls, what are you doing? Now what are you doing? I just wanted to make sure you know I’m here. Right here. Next-door. And I love you. Did you hear me? I love you. OK. Bye now. I’ll be right here. In love with you…” He’s got it especially bad for the tall one, likely because she’s the only one which can reach up tall enough to blow back softly into his nostrils. Or squeal at him and try to bite his nose, dependin.
It ain’t dignified of him. And it only encourages ‘em, with me. I know Original Coors is jealous, but he can have ‘em all as far as I’m concerned. There’s no room for romance in the life of a working ranch horse, nor even a retired one like me. Flirtin with a mare back on the ranch would only get ya in trouble with the cowboys and take your mind off your work, and likely make you step sideways off the trail and trip over your own feet and dive nose-first into a cholla cactus while admirin the sight of her purty tail swishin softly along in the breeze front of your nose. And then one day they’re in love with you, and the next day they’d sooner double-barrel kick you in the chest than look at you, and a horse can’t never make sense of the why or why not of it. That’s how mares is. They’ll bamboozle a horse.
The only County Island mare I pay any mind to at all is a tiny little white one that lives down the road, and which gets ponyed along with us sometimes when we go trail ridin. She’s no bigger than a not-yet-grown heifer herself, although she is full-grown and wise in her years, and she is quiet as a mouse in a grain barrel, which I like about her. She can stop a full-sized gelding in his tracks simply by pinnin her ears or scrunchin her nose. She’s got the big horses that live with her all sayin yes ma’m and no ma’m and thank you and please. And she don’t even got to say a word to do it. She’s the only mare I always give my full attention to, by trainin my ears straight forward on her at all times. And I always use my politeness around her. She reminds me of my momma.
You see, I learned everythin I need to know from my own dam that foaled me, and that’s all the mare I’ll ever truly need. I don’t remember much about her, but she didn’t stand for much nonsense from a foolish palomino colt. We horses got to be practical in such mare matters, lest we all turn into prancified County Island pantywaists instead of real horses.