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Shave & a Haircut

13 Feb

So, one time, a long while back, when I was newly arrived upon the County Island and figured since nothin at all made sense here, I might as well play along, which truth to tell is how I still feel about the County Island, and back when me and Original Coors was still livin together at the boardin stable ranch with all the jumpin horses and show horses before we got our own little corral-ranch, and also back before we got Coors Light –

Wait up – Let an old horse catch his breath…

So, as I was sayin, back when I lived in a paddock-stall at the boarding stable ranch and back when the bucket gal and her carrot guy was all brand-new to this here ranch horse, there came a time when I was on the receivin end of an accidental haircut.

Now, I still don’t understand why horses on the County Island get haircuts at all, ’cause they ain’t useful haircuts, like back when the cowboys’d shave my forelock clean off so I wouldn’t get burrs and cactus stickers in my hair and in my eyes, or when they’d shave me a real long bridle path to keep my mane from gettin caught in my bridle when I was workin all day. That was a shave and a haircut where form followed function. First, horses here on the County Island don’t exactly work for a livin. And second, when they do get haircuts, it ain’t for usefulness, it’s for “purtyness.” And if purty is as purty does, then they look purty foolish, in my estimation, all clean-shaved and shiny, for no good reason.

So, at the boardin-stable ranch, there was always a bunch of horses that got trucked out to horse competitions, and there was always a person assigned to purty ‘em up before they got hauled away. One afternoon, I was in my own stall mindin my own business, and one such young girl person came around with a bucket full of horse clippin implements, and not any horse food in the bucket, and a flat piece of wood with a paper on it which she talked to and frowned at as she walked from place to place, clippin and purtyin up the appropriate equines. She kept repeatin to herself, as she scanned all the stalls, “Palomino pony… palomino pony…” And then she came upon my stall and stopped in front of it, and exclaimed proudly, “Palomino pony!”

And she found my halter, and opened my gate, and led me out into the breezeway. I thought maybe I should have tried to tell her, “This is not the palomino pony you is lookin for.” I was mostly sure she meant Goldie, who was a fancy, “papered hunter pony” who lived way in the back of the barn clear on the opposite side of the boardin stable ranch, but, well, I dunno, maybe she did mean me.

And so I stood nice and still while she shaved my muzzle clean – took all my fine whiskers clean off! And I wondered, maybe she don’t know a horse on the ranch needs those? And she shaved the sides of my face, and she shaved me a bridle path, but only a tiny one hardly big enough for my bridle to set upon. And then she held my ears, and set to clippin those, even inside ‘em! And I thought, this is gettin curiouser and curiouser! And then she got to my legs, and clippered me clean up to my kneecaps on all four, and I do mean clean! And then with no ado, she put me back, and I gave it no more thought at all. Chalked it up to one of them County Island things.

Next mornin, my bucket gal and her carrot guy came to the barn to ride me and Coors. The bucket gal was busy fussin with Coors’ halter, when the carrot guy came upon my stall and stopped and looked at me with a strange look. So I pointed my ears forward at him, and gave him a strange look right back. And then he gave my near-nekkid ears a stranger look, and looked me up, and looked me down. And then he called for the bucket gal to come have a look. And she did the same – looked me up one side, and down the other, like I’d suddenly grown a cactus arm out the side of my head.

And soon I was at the center of a scene of much stumped silence at the boardin-stable ranch, with many people comin to gaze upon my freshly clippered countenance. The carrot guy said, and I don’t know what this means, it was like someone breakin into your house to clean it for you. And the carrot gal said, well, that answers the question of whether Whiskey’s clipper-broke. And then everybody thought it was funny the new clipperin girl mistook me for Goldie, when the only thing we got in common, and a fine thing to have in common it is, is our yellow coloration.

And nobody was mad, everybody was glad, and my hair grew out, and there’s nothin more to talk about. That’s my shave and a haircut story.

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Posted by on February 13, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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