An honest workin horse never lays down on the job. Literally.
When I was workin on the ranch, which I did the majority of my life, I was on my hooves from sunup to sundown, day in and day out, come the monsoon or come the fiery hot time, doin important chores alongside the cowboys. If a cowboy stopped and tied me to a fence or a tree for a few minutes, I’d catch some shut-eye standin up, and I still do excel at fallin asleep the second I’m able to, then wakin back up when we’re ready to ride off again. And ever since I been retired to the easy lifestyle of the pleasure horse, when there ain’t no work nor saddle in sight, I am also right capable of foldin all my limbs fast and droppin to the sand for a flat-out siesta in the sun. Sometimes the entirely well-intentioned and uneducated folks of the County Island even mistake my slumberin self for a dead horse, and rush to reportin the false alarm of my untimely demise to our bucket gal.
The horses that was born on the County Island got some addled notions about work. Like Coors Light, for instance. Yeah, I know I poke fun at him real bad sometimes, and at his bonafide brother Original Coors, but what good’s an Ayrab horse if you can’t tease it, after all? They’re always after me to play horse-games with the two of ‘em, and teasin is how this old ranch pony plays. I do also believe Coors Light suffers from delusions of what’s called grandeur, which is a fancy way of sayin he thinks he’s all that and a bag of sweet feed. Such as how he claims to be a national champion in prancin around in circles, as if there was such a thing.
And Coors Light, like all the County Island horses, thinks he’s workin hard if he gets a saddle slung onto his back even four to five times in what’s called a week. For usually an hour if he’s made to prance, maybe two hours for a trail ride. Of late, he’s been feelin a bit put-upon, ridin-wise. Seems our bucket gal’s been settin him to prancin with more purpose than usual, and Coors Light claims to be plumb wore out from the “work,” which I know is a lie, ‘cause he also told me he can prance perfectly without battin an eyelash, but he don’t want our bucket gal to know it ‘cause then she’d be inclined to prance him even more. So I know the game he’s playin.
But recently, he did somethin that many a workin ranch horse has dreamed of doin when he was dead tired from draggin his cowboy from one end of the ranch to the other, and back, all day. So on the one hoof, I kinda got to respect Coors Light for it. And I do feel warmly about the notion of playin a gentle trick or two on our bucket gal, on principle. But on the other hoof, I can’t abide him feelin so overtaxed when, in truth, he ain’t never done an honest day’s work in the real, ranch sense of the word.
What he done was stage a protest, by layin down on the job. Literally.
Our bucket gal was trail ridin him at an agreeable amble through a deep and sandy wash, which is a dry arroyo bed. And when they rode upon the perfect soft and sunny spot, Coors Light slowly stopped, and sunk himself upon the sand with a satisfied sigh, and stayed there. There was nothin our bucket gal could do except step off of him at ground-level. Much as Coors Light exaggerates his prancin work, and much as I myself would never actually act out such a scenario, I got to respect his style.
I asked Coors Light if she got mad, if she slapped the reins at him in remonstration or maybe kicked coarse sand at his soft white belly to get him back up. He said no — she laughed! Which proves to my mind that the County Island people is even more confoundin than the County Island horses, and that’s sayin a lot.