When you’re a horse that’s ridin in a rollin white horse-box, its kinda a strange sensation. If ya ain’t never been in one before, kindly allow me to explain. First off, a rollin white horse-box is a rollin big box of a thing, set on rolly-wheels, which horses go into, like a cave or a barn-stall. Mostly I seen ‘em in white, but I’ve also seen ’em in grey, palomino, black and brown. Sometimes red or even bright-sun yella. Mostly white, though. When your person opens up the door to the thing and says “Load up!” your job as a horse is to load yourself straight up. If it’s a proper stock trailer, which was the only kind I knew about before I came to live on the County Island. you can then thusly turn yourself to face whichever way you like, and plant your hooves where they feel most grounded on the hollow-feelin fence-wood ground thing part of it, and also often give the stink-eye to whichever cattle you’re travelin with.
If it’s a County Island horse-box contraption, you got to stand inside your own slot with the big white wall thing next to ya, and you got to stay tied where they tie ya, but there’s always a huge hay net stuffed full of hay no matter how short of a trip you’re takin, so that’s alright with me. It don’t matter much which way your hooves are planted when you got your face planted deep in a hay bag. Once you’re settled in, you can keep on eatin, and look out the window-hole and watch how fast trees, and fields and even other rollin people-vehicles can fly past a horse, like they could gallop. Which they can’t. And then eat some more. Maybe pin your ears at your trailer compadres, be they horses or cows. Most likely they’re gonna be other horses on the County Island. And that’s pretty much the entire lowdown of ridin in a rollin horse-box. No horse ought to fear it nor resist climbin aboard one and causin a great big ol’ fuss with their handler — unless, of course, the handler’s like our own bucket gal and ain’t askin ya in the lingo you’re best familiar with — ‘cause a trailer ain’t the mouth of neither a cave containin a cougar that might eat a horse, nor the open jaws of an even bigger critter that might eat a horse. Unless somethin suddenly goes south.
Things went south once while I was rollin along nose-deep in my hay.
The first time it nearly blew through one of its whoas, it kinda woke me up and tossed me, and I scrambled my legs around off-guard. Then we set to rollin along fine again, and I went back to dozin off while chewin.
Then I think maybe it started to whoa proper-like the next time it tried to slow down, but the whole entire rollin horse-box felt like it locked its legs and set itself to pull back, which is a real strange thing since a rollin horse-box ain’t got legs nor have I ever observed one to pull back when it’s tied to its rumbly-truck.
And then it squealed at me. And it kept squealin, even after it whoaed, and even after it set to rollin again.
So I kicked. And I kicked again, to maybe say, hey there, bucket gal! We got a problem. And also make it stop. But it kept on squealin kinda like underneath my hooves. Like maybe we’d got a pig stuck down there or somethin? I got no idea how or why that’d happen, but I have observed stranger things bein a horse. But it kept on squealin and rollin. So I stopped kickin. There ain’t no point to ever makin your own point more than ya got to. If ya continue bangin and carryin on too long, other horses, and other people, will likely get after ya. The pig was gonna have to fend for itself.
When we rolled into the trailhead we was meant to stop at, the rollin horse-box persisted in squealin some more, and also pullin back and kinda buckin against the tie-rail part between it and the rumbly-truck. I tried hard not to kick anymore, but I scrambled on my feet and kicked on accident.
I heard the rumbly-truck door and real fast footsteps. Then the bucket gal opened the big back door, and before she’d even untied me, I was turned around to make a real fast exit. I did my best not step on her, but still. I looked around at the trailhead with my eyes real wide to try to see the squealin pig that’d been travelin with us, but there was no pig. I ain’t scared of pigs, but if this one knew somethin I didn’t by its persistent squeals, a smart horse ought to pay attention.
The bucket gal was strokin my neck real soft-like and tellin me sorry about the “breaks” that was bad. Her words was gentle, but her hands was damned near shakin. And there weren’t no pig to be seen anywhere. I blowed out through my nostrils, and dropped my head to graze on what there was for grazin. And then everythin was fine except for whatever thing has done broke, and now that I was out of the horse-box, the only thing good and broke was me, in the good and proper horse-way.
The ride back home after our pointless County Island trail ride was kinda bucky and pig-squealy again, but I didn’t worry myself about it this time. And it felt like the horse-box rolled and stopped itself with a whole lot more care along the way like it was tryin hard to be better behaved despite its bad breaks.
That’s the only time I ever experienced a misbehavin rollin horse-box. So if sometime maybe it happens to you, just roll with it. Them’s the breaks.