Used to be, as you may have perhaps heard me tell a time or two before, when I was a workin ranch horse, there was a list as long as the day is of chores that I had to complete with my cowboy, all of which were purposeful. Make sure the cows were all accounted for. Doctor any ones that needed doctorin. Mend a fence. Stand and watch while a water pump got fixed to make sure every horse and every cow had water to drink at the water tank. And it all made sense to a horse, even though sometimes it was hard.
Now, some days, my job is solely made up of sayin good mornin to an owl and then headin back home to my hay, which I could have been eatin all along, instead.
There’s a big old owl that lives in what’s called the owl tree, for obvious reasons, and most mornins on our rides across the County Island durin the hot time, my job and the bucket gal’s job seems to be to say good mornin to it.
I reckon the owl would rather not be said good mornin to, by his demeanor, and I also reckon the owl would have a good mornin whether or not we said good mornin to it, and, in fact, might actually have a better mornin if nobody said good mornin to it at all, and left it to itself to have its own good mornin.
It makes her happy when she says good mornin to the owl, and the owl says hoot back to her, and it’s good for a horse to have a happy human. Owls always say hoot to anybody, as far as I know. But the bucket gal gives it a howdy, and it gives her a hoot, and I simply stand there under saddle and wait ‘til the deed is done, like the patient horse I am, thinkin about how soon we’ll be headed back to my little horse-corral, and then I’ll get a hose-bath, and then after that, the hardest thing I’ll have to think about for the rest of the day is whether I should go and roll in the sand first, or chase Coors and Coors Light off from the hay piles and eat first.
This bein a retired pleasure horse gig is kind of a hoot, itself, I reckon.