“C” Is for Camp

16 Apr

Once upon a quiet County Island day, some men in bright carrot-orange shirts, with lots of noisy people-machinery, climbed into our corral and spent the morning diggin some pits bigger than the biggest pits a horse could ever paw into the ground. Maybe even big enough to hold an entire horse inside the pit, if a horse fell down inside one.

But then they covered up the holes with a whole lot of people-crap, pardon my french, that looked like this.


The people-crap reminded me and my horse buddies Coors and Coors Light of the year our bucket gal festooned the fence with “Christmas decorations,” which is to say, horse toys — lots of long, sparkly silver paper things that we played with, and red ribbons we tore off and ripped into tiny pieces with our teeth, and then stomped into the ground. And pine needles and cones we crunched our teeth on. And bells we shook and stomped until they stopped makin bell sounds and laid flat and still for good. Oh, the fun we had that night!

And Coors also said the big wood things the carrot-orange-shirt men left across the pits must be bridges, and I had to agree, they did look like bridges a horse is meant to walk across, such as those pointless wooden-bridges-on-the-ground the people like us to step upon called “trail obstacles,” like at the police horse school I went to.

And so we figured that night we’d be playin with all the new horse toys that the bucket gal had the orange-shirt men bring for us, and maybe walk back and forth on the bridges over the big pits, for fun, like she always wanted us to do on purpose.

Only, we never got the chance. When she got home from her people-job and saw the pits and the new horse toys, damned if she didn’t yell at the telephone that lives inside her pocket, and I mean YELL. In the kinda voice that means “whoa” as in “right now.” I don’t know why she blamed the telephone for the diggin, but then again, I try my best not to think about what people think.

She was barely done yellin at her phone before us and our buckets got scooped up into the rollin white horse-box and departed for camp, which is where the prancin lady that makes Coors Light prance lives, and where a whole lot of the Coors Brothers’ even more prancey kin folk live, and where we normally go when the bucket gal and the carrot guy have a vacation.

And then, we stayed at camp for a damned long time. And, the bucket gal came TO camp! To ride us, even! It was all entirely wrong to a horse, as far as camp goes. And by the time we got delivered back to our own home-corral, all the new horse toys was disappeared, like they’d never been there in the first place. I never even got the chance to dare Original Coors to climb into one of the pits, then leave him down in there wearin a big yellow caution tape bow on his head. Not that I would’ve.

But I did learn a few things at this strange version of camp, which I wanted to tell about.

First thing, prancey horses live with prancey chickens! If you’re like me and never seen a prancey chicken before, I’ll describe ‘em to ya. They’re exactly like regular chickens, only prancey.

I’ll give ya a for instance. If a regular chicken and a quail and a rainbow, shinin all purty and colorful up in the sky, could make a baby chicken, they’d make a prancey baby chicken. That’s exactly what they look like, to a horse. I doubt that’s how they’re actually made, but they ain’t quite right. And they live in a paddock bedded with straw, next to the prancin arena, instead of in a proper chicken coop, just like how some prancey horses live in fancy, prancey bedded stalls.

A Prancey Chicken

A Prancey Chicken

Second thing, I can report that I have now done been rode inside a real bonafide competitive prancin arena! And yeah, it was everythin I thought it’d be. Which is to say, confoundin to the logical mind of a ranch horse, even if I did get a compliment for my trot, which a lady said was “quite fancy” and “ground-covering.” Unlike some lazy Ayrabs I won’t mention.

In a bonafide competitive prancin arena, for those like me who’d never seen one before, they don’t use numbers from zero to nine, which is the proper way to count cattle if you’re playin the stupid cow games of pennin or sortin. Instead, the bonafide competitive prancin arena has got letters on it. Only, they ain’t in order from A to B to C and such. They’re all mixed up, and some are plumb gone, like maybe the cattle that was wearin ‘em done run off? Because surely all those white signs around the arena must be shoulder numbers, or I guess shoulder letters, for cattle to wear? And also, they keep the letters stuck into buckets — which could be used to feed horses. So I was very confused as to why there would be signs that look like cattle shoulder numbers except with letters out of order, with no cows at all on the property to wear the letters, and buckets filled with sand and arena letters instead of horse feed.

"P" is for prance.

“P” is for prance.

Coors Light says nobody at all know what the most-used prancin letters mean or why the people stick ‘em where they do. So I came up with my own meanin. I think they mean:

Horse on the
County Island

Because, well, we can and we do. And then Original Coors said it has to do with “All King Edward’s Horses,” but that’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. We don’t know anybody named Edward, but we do know horses who buck-fart.

Third and last thing, even if a stick-jump has got a flower box inside of it, don’t stop and eat the flowers. That’s rude manners, and also they taste terrible because they’re made from “silk” and not actually from flowers. No, I didn’t try to graze on ‘em. I’m passin along what some other horses told me.

Leave a comment

Posted by on April 16, 2013 in Uncategorized


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: