You know what it’s like when you’ve got a real bad itch, smack-dab in the middle of your belly, and you can’t scratch it no matter how much you roll in the sand, or how long you try to stand over some brush in the desert and rock back and forth over the brush to try to use them prickly thorns and branches to get at the itch and scratch your belly? And that itch still gets the best of you?
Or, you know how when you’re laid out in the soft, warm sand for a sweet siesta, and suddenly you’re aware there’s a shadow kinda hoverin over your body, vulture-like, and then you realize that vulture-shadow’s attached to a certain white horse called Coors Light, and he’s playin a game of “I’m not touchin you, I’m not touchin you,” all while snakin his neck down at you and wigglin his lips in the air and such, and air-bitin at your hocks and your tail? Do you know what that’s like, to lay still there pretendin to be asleep, and to have to not care? That’s what’s called bein pestered, and it’s a subject with which I have long and personal familiarity.
Now, I ain’t a horse who pesters easy. I know what you’re thinkin: Whiskey’s surely a grumpy old palomino horse, so what’s he talkin about? Truth is, I’m almost entirely only grumpy on my insides, and that’s still hardly never, and, okay, occasionally grumpy in my own thoughts when I set to composin words for people to understand about the happenins of the County Island. On the outside of me, though, there ain’t much that truthfully pesters me. But it’s also truthful that we all got our pet peeves, which are things that pester us, no matter how long our fuses is or how much pesterin it takes to bring us to the brink of leapin to our feet from a nap and lungin after Coors Light. Hypothetically, that is.
But I don’t want to talk about me today. No, really. I want to talk about our bucket gal’s own latest pet peeve, emphasis on pet. I only ever seen one glimpse of it, and that was maybe two bucket times ago, when she carried it out from our hay shed fortress inside a tiny steel contraption, maybe like a tiny mare motel a person can carry, but for tiny critters instead of horses? I know that sounds ridiculous, but I seen it. And I overheard she’s got another one of them pet peeves livin inside the hay shed fortress, and maybe even a whole lot more pet peeves in there than that, and they have been pesterin her somethin fierce, I guess, I think maybe even worse than the original bucket bunny used to pester her and steal all the bucket mixin spoons. Nowadays, we got additional generations upon generations of bucket bunnies littered all over our little ranch here, bunnies that learned from their mommas and their mommas’ mommas’ mommas all about grain and sweet feed than rains down from the sky when a horse dribbles his food at bucket time.
But that’s another story.
I never knew before that a pet peeve was a real critter. Or that they confounded the people so bad. From what I gather, our bucket gal is so danged pestered, she’s declared a war against all the pet peeves ‘cause what they do is wreak terrible havoc inside the hay fortress shed. And I do not cotton to any critter that would wreak havoc with my hay. I think when she gets ‘em penned inside her tiny mare motel for critters, she’s actually sendin ‘em down the road, if you catch my meanin. It’s literally what she said. I heard it said from her to our carrot guy when she had the one pet peeve that I saw in the tiny mare motel that they “should take it as far down the road as possible”! Normally I ain’t a fan of sendin nobody down the road like that, but I reckon a horse-hay havoc-wreakin pet peeve could be an exception.
So I hope she gets ‘em all. I mean, the pet peeve I saw didn’t look particularly pestery, but pestered to the point of perpetual preoccupation our bucket gal is. I swear, though, to all I know as a ranch horse to be true, that pet peeve looked an awful lot like a plain old packrat, to me. But what do I know?