Who’s Your Daddy?

22 Feb
Whos Your Daddy Blog Photo 1

Amigos, I was gonna attempt to say somethin about this, but the words fail an old ranch horse. And y’all know how words don’t fail me much. Just know it pertains, as best it can pertain.

One recent time, I overheard a tiny County Island young ‘un of the filly persuasion tellin her own sire, “Daddy, that’s a pretty cow!” Only she was pointin at what was clearly a pinto horse.

I been called a lot of things in my time, generally good things, but occasionally things that ain’t fit to repeat, but I ain’t never been called a cow. I have been called an elephant, which I think is an entirely made-up critter ‘cause I ain’t never seen one, and if they was real, surely I’d have seen at least one elephant by now in my considerable workin life, but I’ll get around to relayin the elephant tale another time.

Seems to me County Island young ‘uns need to get outdoors more. For a place with a fair amount of open spaces and open sky left to it, and also a decent amount of us horses although it’s nothin like a big workin ranch at all, li’l people seem to spend most of their time penned up in their people-barns instead of learnin to ride, learnin to clean up after horses, chasin ranch dogs, climbin fences, and generally gallopin around to stretch their legs. No wonder they can’t tell a horse from a cow. I don’t know why their sires and dams don’t turn ‘em out more to let ‘em be properly pasture raised.

So it made me glad a couple days later when I saw the same filly with her siblins all climbin dirt piles and jumpin off ‘em without one growed-up person in sight, and generally runnin wild and horse-playin this way and that way to the extent that would spook a less reliable horse than me. And it restored my opinion when I heard the tiny filly shout somethin real enthusiastic in my general direction. I fully expected a good ol’ “You have a pretty horse!” such as I got a lot of that one time.

But I didn’t get a purty horse.

Instead, her tiny high filly whinny-voice prattled on and on and on, “… my brother won’t let us climb up the best part …” and also some  “…he won’t let me {somethin or other that matters to a filly}!!! And I said I’m gonna TELL OUR DAD!!!” And then the cryin started. It was all more than an old ranch horse needed to know.

“Oh no!” the bucket gal called back. “Well, have fun!”

And I knew I still liked the bucket gal alright. Ain’t nobody likes a tattle-tail even if she ain’t got a real tail, and even if she’s got the waterworks flowin. Seemed kinda like false histrionics, if ya ask me, which is a real silly and fancy way of sayin screamin like a barn cat that ain’t even been stepped on yet, only stepped near, but screamin like a horse had already stomped his tail clean off. That’s a histrionic cat.

But what was happenin to the County Island? Ain’t -I- a purty cow? Maybe the pinto was a purty cow ‘cause he was Holstein colored, but I’m a solid palomino steer color. I never knew my sire, but I assume he was a horse, and a workin ranch one like my dam was too, and like I am. Or, was. But I can count the good workin horses on the County Island without even usin all my hooves. And seems there’s less cattle here now than there was when I first came to the County Island, and even then there wasn’t even enough of ‘em to make a proper cattle drive, nor warrant roundin up (plus they was already rounded up inside their own li’l pet-cow pens) nor tendin to day in and day out. Cows here got names like Chocolate Chip instead of Dinner.

As we went along on our ride, I made a mental count not only of how long it was gonna take us to get back home, and get my saddle and bridle off, and have a swipe at me with the brush and the hoofpick again even though that already gone done before I got barely rode, and of course then how long it would take for me, Original Coors, and Coors Light to get fed after that. That’s the mental countin I always make when I’m walkin along a trail. But what I also counted this time was County Island horses and cows — and I done come up short.

We’re missin some, by my count. Like maybe the people got less horses and cows here than they used to? I counted up again, and got the same number which was lackin. I remembered horses I pricked my ears at to say howdy for years now. Horses that ain’t around no more. Huh. And because countin a third time would be ridiculous, I stopped there. The County Island people did indeed have less us of than they used to back in the day when I got here. I figure some got old and went off wherever old horses go. Some likely got sold to other ranches, but I couldn’t imagine which horses those’d be, ‘cause the useful horses was still all accounted for. Only a fool’d send a prancey pet horse to a ranch.

Kids callin pinto horses cows. Kids not callin out “pretty horse” like they used to. Less horses. Less cows… Had I been livin on the County Island long enough to watch ‘em change out the herd? But they wasn’t swappin us for younger, faster, sounder horses. We seemed to be … disappearin entirely, like one by one?

I ain’t a horse who gets alarmed too much. The only things worth bein alarmed about is these, thusly. Mountain lion-cats … And also… I’m thinkin … Coors Lights wants me to add deers in the bushes, so I’m addin scary deers in the bushes. (I ain’t scared of deers in the bushes like he is.) Y’know, I do believe mountain lion-cats is it. And black-as-night lurkin full people-trash bags alongside the road. If ya ain’t never seen those, trust me, they’re worth some alarm.

So I guess I ain’t gonna be alarmed not by disappearin horses nor kids that can’t tell horses from cows and also that can’t tell a purty horse he’s purty. They ain’t bein raised right by their daddies. I just hope they get around to raisin up some more horses to fill up the County Island. I could use some more compadres. And good horses is the best thing for makin good people. We sure could use some more good County Island people judgin by their get of sire.

Whos Your Daddy blog photo 2

This here picture-thing makes less sense to a horse than the first one. It should say, “Milk, I am your mama,” and the milk jug ought not to be  afraid of it. I reckon it was drawed by a mixed-up kid from the County Island that can’t tell a bull from a milk cow.


Posted by on February 22, 2016 in Uncategorized


2 responses to “Who’s Your Daddy?

  1. shinumo

    February 22, 2016 at 9:08 pm

    Well, one time a girl filly told my bucket girl that I look like a donkey! Can I come live on the county island with you? That would help increase the horse population some. Your friend, Yote.

  2. Whiskey Ranch-Horse

    March 1, 2016 at 6:52 pm

    Howdy there, Mr. Yote Horse.

    Well, we already got more donkeys that I personally think the County Island needs, but I realize a lot of people see it different than I do. If we’re ever short on donkeys, I’ll likely let ya know.



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