It has recently been made my business that there’s some folks who don’t know what a County Island is. I know – I could hardly believe it myself. I hear tell some folks even been ponderin if the County Island is real or not. Well, that notion’s purely ridiculous – of course it’s real. I’m real, ain’t I? And I really do live on it, so of course it’s real. It’s as real as a rattlesnake’s rattle.
I can’t believe I got to describe what a County Island is for y’all after all this time I been makin you my horse-blog tales all about it, but here goes.
First off, some folks claim that for a place to be called an island, it’s got to be surrounded by water, likely all around it, for as far as a horse’s eye can see.
So, to that point, us horses got plenty of water for drinkin here on the County Island. Me and Coors and Coors Light got four tubs of water, in fact, for only three of us horses, and I figure I can turn my body in any direction I please, and I’m mostly pleased to turn myself flat down on the sand in order to be asleep, and no matter where I am, I can still see at least one tub full of water.
Also, a few bucket times ago, which the people call days, it rained like a ranch horse pissin’ at the end of the long trail, and water poured from up high in the sky all danged day, from mornin’ feedin’ time to way past bedtime for the coyotes and the hoot owls at night. That ain’t happened for a long time, but occasionally, that kinda rain happens. And that’s the reason why I ain’t shed all of my fine yellow haircoat yet, even though we’ve had some warm times of late. A smart ranch horse has got to keep his jacket on, to put it in people terms so as you might understand it, until he knows it’s time to take it off.
And, of course, I already done told you all about the dumpster divin’ and the time of the greatest flood here upon the County Island, when our little horse-corral surely was an island unto itself.
My horse buddies Coors and Coors Light are tryin to tell me the recent big water from the sky came on a “sunday,” but that’s even sillier than a cowboy tryin to hold onto his Stetson in a sandstorm, because there was positively no sun that day, only drivin, rainy water, and also crusty little balls, pardon my french, made of water that done froze up and stinged a horse’s hide when they hit a horse from the sky, and there weren’t no sun nowhere. And Coors Light, who is sadly sheep-sheared on account of he looks and acts somewhat sheep-like, and on account of bein a prancified horse, also sadly, had to wear what looked to be a big blue tarp all day when it rained, to keep his shorn self dry. That was about the funniest thing I ever seen, Coors Light tarped up like a hairless wet sheep in a blue tarp.
So based on all these here criteria, I do believe the County Island qualifies as a bonafide island. The County part’s just it’s ranch name, best I can tell, like my name’s just my name, or why any ranch gets called what it’s called. It don’t mean nothin. It’s just a thing for the people to call it. Same as how I wasn’t Whiskey for much time before the bucket gal and her carrot guy first laid eyes on me. It was just a name for the lady what sold me by way of the auction and the ranch before it to call me when the people asked what they should call me.
As for where the County Island is, well, dang it, it’s right here, where I am. Right by the big palo verde tree and the cactuses, and the critters, and the rocks and the sand, and all the foolish County Island people. People ask too many questions about things that don’t need questionin.