As y’all may recall, I made a blog recently about our new trail-boss-in-a-pocket that the bucket gal got, a lady called Miss Endomondo that lives inside the bucket gal’s new smart telephone as opposed to her old, dumb telephone which apparently wasn’t the sharpest spine on the saguaro, and my own somewhat lowly opinion of her. Well, I would like to announce how now that she’s been ridin herd on us horses for a spell, I done changed my opinion of Miss Endomondo. For the worse.
She ain’t nothin but trouble for a horse. She don’t merely state the obvious all the time, which is irritatin enough, like tellin a horse how far he’s gone and exactly where he is, when a horse already knew all that. She also likes to rat out a horse, and therein lies the issue I take with her.
Y’all know I ain’t an arena horse, much less a prancified horse, and I’m also an old-enough horse who’s earned my retirement job as a County Island pleasure horse. So when the bucket gal sets to ridin me in the prancin arena on occasion, well, that kinda cardiological workout can make an old ranch horse have to stop and catch his breath sometimes. Or stop and rest his old joints. I ain’t complainin about it, I’m just sayin.
Used to be, before meddlesome Miss Endomondo rode into town, me and the bucket gal would prance around some, makin purty circles and turns this way and that, and I’d stretch my legs and trot right out, then we’d lope a little, and then if my nostrils set to flarin a bit, she’d whoa me, pat me like the good ol’ horse I am, and call it a day. And that was perfect.
But the first time we rode in the arena with Miss Endomondo, after we’d done walked, and trotted, and loped, and turned this way and that, and whoaed, and appeared to be done with all that, instead of reachin down to pet me, the bucket gal reached into her pocket and pulled out her danged telephone and fussed with it. I was wonderin what the matter was, ‘cause we’d been ridin for as long as we usually ever did inside the prancin arena. It was, to my recollection, right about the perfect point for quittin. Then she finally pet me, so I yawned appreciatively and expected her to climb down from the saddle, but what she did, to my bewilderment, was kick me back up to a trot! And we kept trottin! For I didn’t even want to know how long!
But I did know how long – because Miss Endomondo talked out loud and told us. “One kilometer in 14 minutes,” Miss Endomondo proclaimed in that smug voice she’s got. What in blazes is a kilometer, I ask you? It’s got “kill” in it, which can’t be good for a horse, and I likely felt like I could be killed by all that endless trottin at that point. So I stopped dead in my tracks.
The bucket gal laughed and told me, “Whiskey, I haven’t even been riding you for 15 minutes yet! Come on, you can do two kilometers!” And she kicked me back up! Two kills! My mind was boggled.
I wish Miss Endomondo would quit her cowardly ways, and show her face here on the County Island instead of hidin inside a telephone. I wouldn’t bite or kick or stomp her, though I might conjure the image in my mind. I’d be real polite to her and nicker down low, maybe win her over to the horses’ side that way. Maybe I’d suck my belly in to look a might skinny and old, and shift my weight back and forth a bit so she’d call me the poor old palomino and tell the bucket gal how she don’t need to listen to a telephone when she’s got a good horse to listen to, and then we could go back to our old, abbreviated arena ridin. That would work for me.
Or, maybe next time the bucket gal accidentally drops her telephone in the dirt, I could accidentally place one of my heavy hooves squarely on top of it and kill-o-meter it. That would work, too.