A horse gets used to all the loud and rumbly things the people love so much, despite his sensitive ears. On the ranch, there were rumbly trucks, rumbly cars, rumbly tractors, and rumbly quads. On the County Island, there’s also rumbly rolly-bikes called hogs, which is a ridiculous thing to call a thing that ain’t a hog. The point is, a good horse learns to ignore all the things that rumble. And, in a crazy, mixed-up kinda County Island way, a horse also learns to distrust things that don’t rumble. A lot of horses find themselves wonderin, why don’t they rumble? And, what the hell’s wrong with ’em, after all? Pardon my french.
Original Coors nearly got pounced upon recently by such a stealthy stalker with no rumble to it at all. They’ll do their best to bamboozle a horse. I never saw ‘em before back at the ranch, but since I arrived on the County Island, seems like I’m startin to see ‘em more regularly, which tells me the County Island must be becomin a better breedin ground for ‘em, and obviously they ain’t got many predators to hunt ‘em down and take care of the population control. Or however such things work with ‘em. Bein a horse, I mostly don’t know, and also don’t care.
But for all you horses that have never met one before, I ought to offer up some first-hoof advice for survivin this souped-up snake in the grass when you’re bein rode, as part of my aim to educate the horses, people and critters of the County Island. I’ll start by describin Coors’ own encounter with one. No, I ain’t gonna let him tell it. I made that mistake once before with Coors Light, and I ain’t a horse who makes a mistake more than once. If the fence line’s been made electric, I ain’t got to lean on the wire twice to be sure.
It was your typical pointless County Island trail ride. Original Coors had just been passed by at least two rumbly vehicles: a big ol’ rumbly truck that’s called a FED EX, which rumbles all over the County Island nearly all day long, every day, like it’s got no sense of direction at all, and also a special rumbly car that most of the men-folk get all mare-eyed over, called a “classic muscle car.” Coors said the muscle car galloped on by him like it was runnin from a burnin barn instead of bein drove in what’s usually more of a trottin-only zone for people-cars. But Coors didn’t pay no attention to neither, on account of he’s a purty good horse overall who ain’t spooked by things that rumble.
And just as with rattlesnakes along the trail, where it ain’t the first horse nor even the second horse that gets rattled at, it’s the third horse that catches the tail end of the snake’s temper, on this day, it was the third thing that almost rattled Original Coors. Only it didn’t rattle, and it never will. That’s how it bamboozles a horse.
Coors didn’t know it was tailin him until it was nearly upon his own tail. That’s how deceitfully silent they are. And he jumped nearly out of his own Ayrab horse skin, but then he turned to face it.
And that’s what y’all need to do, too. Instead of high-tailin it in the opposite direction like your own good horse-instincts tell ya, simply stand and face it, like you’d do if you’re bein hassled by a hound-dog.
Go ahead and give it a hard look. Pin your ears at it, too, if ya want. I promise there’s nothin to be afraid of. When you confront it, you’ll know it’s just another type of contraption the people drive around on the roads, and it’ll surely stop, or back down by way of slowin down and bein polite and rememberin its own manners, or sometimes it’ll even realize the severity of the situation and turn its rumble on. Yeah, it’s actually got a real soft rumble, but it’s still got one. Makes no sense not to use what ya got, if ya got a rumble to start with.
What it truthfully is, is called a prius, which is a human nonsense-word for a grade car, and by grade I mean an entirely unpapered and unpedigreed mongrel of an automobile, such as when a Shetland pony gets mixed up with a donkey and creates what’s called an ironical “hybrid,” and then all hell breaks loose with that combination all mixed into one cantankerous li’l critter. That right there’s what a prius is to a horse.
It’s the most slick and shifty sonofabitch you’ll likely ever see. French already pardoned. Even I sometimes sidestep ‘em a tiny bit, or maybe give ‘em a questionable ear-tilt when they go by without makin any sound.
Wantin to jump away and run’s a sensible thing for a horse, especially since we’ve all heard the tales from our own dams, and their dams’ dams, and so forth before ‘em, about what the mountain lions and the bears can do to an unsuspectin horse. But we got to get the better of our own good horse-instincts in this instance lest we all turn into those horses who spook at their own shadows on the ground all the time. A horse can’t live in constant fear. And like I said, seems like the herd’s growin here upon the County Island. The best thing we can do is send our own fears packin and hope that these priuses is a people-fad such as crossin big ol’ hairy Friesian horses with li’l wispy tiny halter Ayrab horses that’ll someday fade away of its own silent volition.