I never been one to argue with ridin in the rollin horse-box — well, except for the one short spell when me and the bucket gal had to come to terms with it, early on. But after I got her broke to it, everythin was back to business as usual between the rollin horse-box and me and her. Ya hop on in, go wherever ya got to go to do whatever ya got to do, and then ya hop back out. I like to say, step on, stay put, step out. For all the fuss I seen some horses make over it, that’s really all there is to it.
Until one time. My ol’ bad hawks still generally work fine, such as for gettin up and down to roll and rest, and wander in aimless loops around the County Island while wearin my saddle and bridle. But the older and wiser I get — and as I think to tell this tale, I am a bonafide 29 years wise — the badder my hawks get. I don’t know why they can’t behave more like me, but bad hawks seem to have a mind of their own. That’s prancey-horse talk, I know.
My horse-buddy Coors Light claims the bucket gal slips me mickeys all the time, which he calls “meds” and “supplements,” which he claims prancified for-show horses get fed all the time. He claims he and Original Coors get fed ‘em all the time, too. I claim he’s full of it. If I was bein slipped mickeys in my own feed bucket every day surely I’d know it, and taste it. He also claims the li’l hand-fed treat we all get every night is a “med.” Bull! I do know about the silly-yum we all eat sometimes, of course, on account of it’s so yummy, it’s downright silly. It’s even more delicious than the sweet, sweet palo verde flowers I love so much. But that’s all I ever get fed other than proper horse food.
It had been a while since I went for a ride in the rollin white horse-box. I let myself lead in with a slack rope like usual, but that step up seemed higher than I recalled, and my baddest left hawk hesitated to comply. It made it on board with the rest of me but the bucket gal made a frowny mare-face at it. But I was goin for a real ride with some amigos under the blue clear sky.
It was a good day on the County Island.
We rolled off to a ridin-around place, and we rode around it, walkin up, and a li’l bit down, mostly flat with some tiny slopes hardly worth callin hills. It wasn’t much of a leg-stretcher of a ride as far as rides go. Those is the best rides. And my horse amigo, who met us there, and me got all caught up on our horse business and overall it was downright pleasant for a pointless pleasure ride.
When it was time to go back home, both my hawks flat out said NO to climbin back aboard the rollin white horse-box. I’d say no one was more surprised than me, but that’s a lie. A good ranch horse never outright lies. The bucket gal was most surprised by far.
But if hawks won’t bend, they won’t bend, and there ain’t no amount of pushin, pullin, shovin, proddin, pleadin, askin, tellin, promisin, nor tappin nor even whackin with the spare sweep-broom that lives in the rollin white horse-box that’ll help. They hurt, my hawks did, too much to take the big step up required of ‘em. The bucket gal knew it too, bein halfway insightful for a person. But she said my hawks had to get back in the trailer anyhow.
I said, they plumb can’t and they won’t.
She said, Whiskey, you have to get in.
I said, no it seems I do not.
She said, I can’t ride you home from here. It’s too far.
My hawks and me said, that ain’t our problem.
She said, you can’t stay here forever. We have to go home.
I said, that also ain’t my problem to solve. I’m a horse.
She said, if you get on this one time, I’ll figure out something better for next time, I promise.
I said, well, why not figure out somethin better right now?
And she did. The situation got solved when some bystandin horsefolk came along with a butt rope. They unfortunately felt more sorry for the bucket gal than for me. By then she was real red in the face and startin to maybe hyperventilate like a foal freshly weaned from her mamma. But still. I was the genuinely sorrowful old horse with the genuinely sorrowful old hawks that wouldn’t bend. And I’m the one that got butt-roped into the rollin white horse-box like some kinda disrespectful bronc.
We went home. My hawks got me out of the rollin horse-box alright. The bucket gal put the rollin white horse-box back. I stood under my favorite tree and shifted my weight around to try and get comfortable. She came back and hand-fed me a bigger than usual li’l treat. I pinned my ears at Coors Light ‘cause I knew what he was thinkin of it. She patted me softly. I couldn’t look her in the eye. I shifted my back legs some more.
It was a bad day on the County Island…
<to be continued, y’all>