My horse-buddy Coors Light’s got kind of a mouth on him. Y’all wouldn’t particularly know it to look at him, when he’s standin there as quiet and innocent as can be, but the boy can work his lips.
I’ve done seen him pull open the corral gate latch, which neither myself nor Original Coors can manipulate – not that I would try, on account of that’d be bad ranch-horse manners, but there ain’t nothin that says a ranch horse can’t stand guard while a pampered County Island horse does it.
Then Coors Light will walk out into the forbidden zone of the side yard, where the locked-down hay shed fortress is (not even Coors Light can breach that one), then mosey across to the people pond-paddock gate (which is where their swimmin pond is, next to their people-barn), and give it a good shove with his nose. When that didn’t work the first time he attempted it, he mumbled, “Oh! It’s a pull one, not a push one!” and put his head over the top of it, to try to pull the gate toward him with his under-neck. But it had a latch, way down where his lips couldn’t reach it, so pullin it toward him didn’t budge it, either.
It’s a shame, really, on account of the three of us would likely enjoy a good, long roll in some pond water on a hot day.
Gates, latches, levers – they generally mean nothin to Coors Light. Therefore now our bucket gal keeps our little County Island home-corral locked up real solid with a clunky shiny metal block thing on a long, gray cable thing, just when Coors Light thinks he thought of a solution to our pond access problem.
The bucket gal also locked up the mountin block she stands upon to swing into the saddle, and locked up the empty old buckets she used for “arena letters.”
Arena letters is what the people who perform competitive horse prancin use to figure out which way they’re supposed to go, and when. Otherwise, apparently, they’d get themselves completely lost and turned around within a space that ain’t no bigger than a tiny dry-lot. But before those got locked up, Coors Light had taken to tossin the arena-letter buckets out of the corral, one time clear across the fence and into the middle of the danged road, where us horses observed it get flattened by the rumbly garbage truck. That was kinda fun.
Coors Light said if she didn’t want him to play with all the toys, she shouldn’t have so many horse toys in the corral. And it appeared she ended up agreein with that.
After there wasn’t anythin left for him to open or close, or toss around or throw over the fence and into the road, Coors Light turned his big, brown eyes to the big park bench by the barn, where the bucket gal and her friends would often park themselves to sit and hang out with us in the shade.
I would not have believed it had I not seen it with my own reliable eyes. Coors Light and Original Coors was takin turns pesterin each other, which the brothers do a lot. They made faces and craned their necks up and down at each other for a real long time, then they played “stallion of the range,” and so forth. Then Original Coors turned and walked off, done.
Coors Light done looked at his brother, looked at the bench, looked at his brother again, and ambled over to the bench and put his lips and teeth across the top of it. And then, he picked it up, kinda. It was a cumbersome big thing, after all. So, he dragged it. That’s right – he dragged the park bench with his teeth, out from beneath the shade, a good couple gallopin strides of a distance, and next …
He turned his neck sideways, and he attempted to fling the thing. But instead, he tripped and fell on it. And broke it – plumb bashed in the sittin part. And put a gash in his leg. The worst part is, Original Coors never even noticed.
When our bucket gal got home, she assessed the evidence with a sigh and a “No way…” I pricked my ears at her and whuffled softly to try to tell her “Yes way,” but she didn’t listen to me, and I doubt she’d ever imagine what truly happened. She hosed off Coors Light’s leg and wrapped it, and fed him some bitter nasty bute, which served him right, frankly, and she took the broken bench to the dumpster, and she never got another park bench.
And that was the end of that. A good horse should never go around mouthin off at every opportunity, lest his opportunity get taken away from him and locked up tight.