Here on the County Island, when it rains, it pours. And when it ain’t pourin, it can be a downright dry and dusty place. I reckon that’s why we ain’t got no pasture to speak of, we meanin me, Original Coors and Coors Light. But it don’t explain why people sometimes put down pasture grass for themselves. People can’t graze.
One time, the three of us watched while the horses that live across the road got a entire, bonafide pasture on a rumbly-truck delivered to their ranch. A pasture on a truck, imagine that! Until I came to the County Island, I only knew about pasture grass that grows up from the ground. The rumbly-truck parked next to our own fenceline to unload so we got to get real up close and personal with the fresh sweet smell of green, green grass, rolled up in big, green roll-ups. Only it wasn’t quite close enough for us to nibble on, just to inhale with our nostrils instead of our lips.
The horses across the road watched too, and nodded their heads up and down in sweet anticipation of all the good grazin to come.
Only instead of settin out the pasture roll-ups inside their corral, the truck men laid ‘em all out around the people-barn and the people’s people-pool, which is a refreshin pond a horse ain’t ever allowed to set a hoof in. In fact, the people keep their ponds locked up tighter than their hay-shed fortresses. And the horses across the road only got to look longingly at the pasture from afar. Their own people never even sat upon it nor rolled in it. They only occasionally mowed it down with a loud ‘n smelly contraption when their own horses woulda happily done the job for ‘em. People like to do a lot of unnecessary stuff like that which horses can do better.
We got a real big ranch ‘round about the County Island where a horse’s only job is to wear a halter. And also their job is to prance around and snort at the end of a string while wearin said halter. And everythin is big at the real big halter ranch, from the horses’ big blowin nostrils and big bulgin eyes, and also big flat croups and big, badly shaped hooves, to the big barn where they all live, which is bigger than the whole ranch where me and my horse-buddies live, to the big-hair horse trainers who prance at the end of a string along with the horses, also with big nostrils and big bulging eyeballs.
And they do lots of unnecessary people-stuff there. This includes plantin a statue horse — which is to say a not-real horse that’s been froze in place — that’s froze as if to drink water from a stream, next to a real stream, where it can’t get a real drink ‘cause it ain’t real. Instead of allowin their real horses, who’s likely all really thirsty from all the blowin and snortin at the end of their halter strings, to have a drink from their stream, they got a statue-horse there.
Besides plantin a statue, they planted bonafide TONS of roll-up pasture on a truck grass near everywhere around their whole big ranch — that is, everywhere but where their own horse live. And there’s pasture by the road, too, right beneath the noses of all the good, hungry horses that get rode by. In fact, we got to ride on the roadside pasture now, and also on what’s called “decorative” rocks — which is like normal rocks only pointless — or else we got to ride in the actual road. That’s on account of the ranch boss done “landscaped” over the old horse trail.
I tried to stretch my own neck down real subtle-like one time, with my own nostrils big and wide to inhale the fresh smell and my lips stuck out farther than a rattlesnake’s tongue. But the bucket gal reined me up. She told me, as she tends to prattle on at me, that’s not for grazin, it’s for “show” not eatin, ‘cause that was their “lawn.” What foul creation is a “lawn”? I thought maybe by for show she surely meant for the show horses, but it ain’t the case. I asked Coors Light, who claims he once was a big-deal show horse that pranced. But he said he never heard of the practice of havin pasture for show horses only, nor for looks, not eatin. Pasture grass, he said, was always for all the horses equally back where he came from at the California ranch, like it’s supposed to be. The for-show lawn-pasture ain’t even meant for the sad frozen statue-horse by the stream.
Every time we went by, it was the same thing. Aaa, aaa, no Whiskey. That’s their lawn. That’s “ornamental.” That’s not for you. It felt personal.
I wasn’t rude, per se, about askin, ‘cause I still got my ranch manners, but it was still worth askin by way of stretchin my neck down, every time.
Then, one time, the unthinkable happened. We was ridin by, me on the buckle as per usual. The grass was as fragrant and green as per usual. I stretched out my neck and my lips as per usual. And I snuck a bite. And instead of reinin me up with the usual lecture, the bucket gal said, “OK, fine.” So, I took a quick second bite before I even chewed the first.
Only, it tasted a lot worse than it looked. It looked divine. It tasted a lot like when you take a bite of hair off a real annoyin horse but he was just sprayed down with the stinky bottle-stuff the people think keeps the flies off us, only it don’t keep the flies off us? It tasted like that, and also like a lot of, pardon me for sayin it, fresh cow manure. It was not what I expected. Especially when there surely ain’t enough cattle on the whole County Island to produce such a vast volume of it. Do they truck in cow manure on the County Island, too?
Oh, I still chewed and swallowed. Grass is grass, amigos. Unlike County Island people, a good horse never passes up a chance to graze even when the grazin ain’t good. If ya ever get your own chance to chew on some roll-up pasture on a truck, ornamental lawn grass full of spray-smell and cow shit, ya should definitely do it. Mostly I mean your good horses should do it. They should do it for all them halter-wearin horses that can’t and for the poor froze statue-horse that can’t. It’s called doin your part to help, and a good ranch horse ain’t never nothin but helpful.