Those of you who visit my Facebook Ranch will recall me askin what seemed like a simple question about some words that didn’t make sense, that I kept hearin our bucket gal say, about “how to spray paint a horse pink.” Well, I knew what sprayin somethin meant. And I knew what paint is and what it’s for. And I thought I knew what color pink was, like maybe a baby calf’s tongue. But the words, all strung together like “spray paint a horse pink,” sounded sillier than a stud colt in springtime.
And then I found out what it meant to get pinked.
It started one peaceful mornin, as it usually does, with me eatin breakfast and the bucket gal fetchin the rollin white horse box and my western saddle. Sounds harmless enough. And then I was bein brushed and havin my hooves picked out, and I thought, well alright, okay, we’re either goin trail ridin or to play “spend the whole damned day movin 10 cows back and forth repeatedly from one end of a little pen and back again for no good reason, always in the same order even if ya start with a different cow each time, which the people can never seem to keep track of, but a horse easily can, so why don’t they just turn a horse loose to move the cows to the other end, in the proper order, quick like a jackrabbit, and then we can all call it a day?” – which I hear is actually called “team pennin.”
And then she was holdin my tail, and she was sprayin some spray, and I reckoned, well, that’s fly spray ‘cause there are still flies about. She seemed to be sprayin it an awful lot, but I figured she was just bein thorough.
Then she set to sprayin my mane, and the spray can hissed an awful lot, and it had a funny smell that didn’t smell like fly spray, so I tired to turn my head to get a look at it. And she gently pushed my head back and told me to wait a minute.
So I turned my head again and I took a step backwards, and then I saw a pink cloud emmanatin from the sprayer! What the…!
So I took another step backwards and tried to turn around so I could get a look at my tail – while the bucket gal was sayin “Ah ah ah!” like the people do when they mean for you to stand still, but I just could not stand still any longer, so I kept backin up – and then the lead rope done snapped and it broke.
And I stood there with my ears sideways with the busted end of the rope hangin off my halter to kinda say, “Well, sorry.”
“Oh, Whiskey!” she proclaimed. “Come on, it’s for a good cause. It won’t hurt you. Just a little more pink.”
But I puffed my nostrils, and she frowned at me, then she patted me, and said, “It’s okay. You’re pink enough now. Good boy.”
I pondered the words “pink enough” while I was ridin in the rollin white horse box on our way to wherever it was we were goin that a horse had to be pink enough. Turns out, we went to a trail ride where near every horse at the whole danged thing had been pinked! My friend Mr. Blondie who met me at the ride with his person was also decked out in pink! And the people was all pinked too! And there were some horses who had been pinked lots worse than me and festooned with all manner of pink baubles and such. Oh, we were a sight, I tell you what! Horses with pink feathers and ribbons in their manes and tails and with pink garlands wrapped around their necks. Horses with pink glittery war paint all over their faces. Horses with bright pink hooves, for cryin out loud!
I could comprehend that we was goin on a group trail ride, which I’ve done more than a time or two, but I spent the mornin listenin to the various conversations around me among the horses and among the people, tryin to cipher what bein pink had to do with anythin.
I don’t think I got all of it, but apparently, if a horse is pink, by the simple act of bein pink, he can help people, specifically women people, who are sick with a malady called “breast cancer,” and help them feel better and sometimes even get better, too. I don’t know whether it works by makin ‘em laugh and smile at us all bein pink, or what, but I guess it’s true. And all us horses got to do to help is get pinked for a little while. In fact, it is an honor for a horse to get pinked, ‘cause it’s only horses who are tough enough to wear pink that get pinked. So I guess I was deemed to be tough enough, which I already know I am, but it’s also nice to be acknowledged thusly.
If I’d known all that ahead of time, I’d of let the bucket gal pink me from head to toe, instead of mostly just my tail.
Well, alright, that’s a lie. I still don’t like the smell of the pink spray. But still.