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Piggish Behavior

13 Feb

When you come across a sleepin javelina, it’s always best to let it lie, lest it come back to bite you, literally. Those pigs are grumpy, most especially if ya call ’em pigs to their ugly pig faces. And they have lots of sharp and pointy teeth they ain’t shy about snappin at any part of a horse they can snap at. That’s why, when I spied a kinda grey, javelina-shaped big ol’ lumpy thing in the middle of the trail one time, I had to give it kind of a balk, by way of side-steppin to the farthest way around it. And it smelled foul and piggish, too, in my honest defense.

Now, I’m a horse who does things for good reason, even if the reason ain’t always apparent to a County Island person who ain’t so attuned to a ranch horse’s thoughts. If y’all should ever make my acquaintance and find yourself askin me, “Really, Whiskey?” like the bucket gal did that day, you might want to bear that in mind.

Turns out, it was a pile of fresh cement somebody dumped a load of along the trail — that day. Next time, it could be an actual javelina. Which was why I voted to give it a pass, castin my vote for the sensibleness.

We also shoulda given the dumpster beer a pass, but we didn’t. And exactly like a javelina that’s been startled from its sleep, that beer came back to bite me. Well, mostly. The point is, if you come across a thing that you don’t know what it is, but you think it could maybe be a bad thing, if you’ve got a lick of horse sense in you at all, you should always err on the side of bad and leave it be. It’s the sensible horse thing to do.

Dumpster beer, in case y’all may not know, is beer that’s found atop the closed lid of a person’s horse-manure dumpster by the side of the road. It’s kinda specific. And it does pertain to talk about javelinas.

We found it — the dumpster beer, I mean — when we came back from barely avoidin fallin on top of the big, lumpy wet cement javelina pig. It was already that kind of a day. I was so astounded by it — the beer — I aimed both my ears forward, at the same time. And then, I could hardly believe my own eyes.

Coors Light?

It was a big ol’ box-thing, and the whole, entire box smelled like bad beer, gone stale, to a horse, and in big people-letters it was wrote, right there, and as plain as the patch of missin hair in the middle of Original Coors’ nose — “Coors Light.”

I supposed the top of the horse-manure dumpster was a good enough place for a case of Coors Light.

And there I woulda left it. But the bucket gal laughed and ended up makin an entire to-do about it. There ain’t nothin funny as far as I can see — and I can see purty far — about somebody leavin us a case of Coors Light on top of the horse-manure dumpster out in front of our little ranch, when we got a horse here called Coors Light, and everybody knows what I think of Coors Light, the beer, well, and the horse too. What’d be funny about that?

Seems there was nothin wrong with the beer at all (other than it bein Coors Light, which was wrong enough for me). And for some reason, it was also “funny” if we was to go back to our own little horse-corral, and spend a whole lotta time tryin to make me, Original Coors and even Coors Light try to drink Coors Light. Time that shoulda been spent chewin on my supper hay instead of bein forced to sniff at that swill. Not to mention, Coors Light drinkin Coors Light seemed somehow entirely wrong, kinda cannibalistic-like, like the way pigs get sometimes.

I near wished I coulda sniffed a javelina instead of a Coors Light. That encounter woulda been quick and painless.

As it turned out, Coors Light didn’t like Coors Light. In fact, he sniffed it with great trepidation and some disgust, which made me think maybe he’s got some horse sense, after all.

Original Coors thought Coors Light was just OK. He tried some at first, then that was enough Coors Light for him, and he walked off.

I…

Well.

It wasn’t half bad. Well, that means half of it was bad.

It was beer, and I like beer. Yeah, so I tried some Coors Light. And then I tried it again, to be sure, slurpin it with great politeness from the bucket gal’s hand. But then I craned my neck high into the air and I curled up my nose and my upper lip, to tell the bucket gal exactly what I thought of Coors Light, and she laughed at me and agreed that was enough of that for all of us.

I’d had my fill of it, and I wasn’t gonna fill myself up on some Coors Light swill just because it was there and it was beer. After all, I ain’t no pig.

I reckon the Coors Light went back into the horse-manure dumpster where it belonged, just like I reckon some County Island person eventually tossed out all the lumpy javelina-shaped cement pile we’d encountered on the trail, ‘cause I never saw it again, neither. Unless, like I like to tell any horse that’ll listen, it really was a javelina, and it’s still out there on the County Island, somewhere.

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Posted by on February 13, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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