I got a decent mane, for bein a horse, I suppose.
Some horses is born with manes that grow plumb down to their knees and flow real purty in the breeze when they run. They got plenty of mane to flip when a horse needs to flip his neck to make a point. Their mane hairs is as soft and shiny as a newborn rattlesnake’s belly. Their hairs also catch real bad in the brambles and brush, and get ripped out in the tree branches. And their hairs also get ripped out by other horses grabbin on with their teeth to make their own point, and by twisted wire braids on fencelines if you’re trying to graze the better grass, or any grass, on the other side. And then those horses with the lovely locks is left with only loser locks.
Other horses is born into this world hair-impaired. Original Coors is one such horse. He ain’t got a proper forelock. What he’s got looks more like a no-lock. Some Appaloosas come with rat tails, and some big prancey horses got manes so bad they’re full of disgustin crawly cockroaches, and their people shave their manes clean off or pull ‘em until there’s nothin left but tiny foal mane hairs which is called roachin ‘em. But I suppose if it makes ‘em feel less filthy (and not in a good roll in the dirt way) and cures ‘em of their cockroach problem, it’s worth goin around lookin like a wiry colt your whole life.
So ya can truly tell some things by a horse’s mane. Some things, but I still say not all.
I suppose I should just spit it out, like a big ol’ wad of wet hay.
The bucket gal sent some of my mane away to some big high-falutin horse mane hair whisperers at a big ranch called the Texas A&M University to ask ‘em what I am, as if bein a good horse ain’t enough. And then the mane whisperers tell ya three things a horse might be in the order of him bein it.
My mane says I’m almost all Missouri Fox Trotter horse. I don’t even know what that is! I know what trottin is, of course, and what foxes is. I’ve likely even trotted after foxes a time or two. So that makes right about 19 percent of y’all real smart for guessin Missouri Fox Trotter, and the rest of ya maybe not so smart after all.
It also says I got a drop of an Andalusian in me, and then lastly, Turkoman horse.
What’s an Andalusian? I surely never met one. And I ain’t “in delusion” at all. I’m as grounded as a horse gets. I guess it’s good I only got a drop of it in me, like maybe my great-great-great-great-great granddaddy or grandma was part delusional horse, and thus it ain’t affected me.
A Turkoman, turns out, don’t even exist anymore. It ain’t a real horse, but I am, and I do so exist. It’s what the mane whisperers tell ya when there ain’t nothin left to tell, but the ranch boss says they got to give ya three things anyway.
They still ain’t sent the whole long “report,” whatever a report is, for the bucket gal to read and obsess over like a stall-weavin prancey horse, and I say it’s on account of no such report exists. It’s a turkoman report. That’s my new word for made-up County Island bullshit.
So there ya have it. I’m likely a Missouri Fox Trotter if ya ask my mane hairs. And that don’t change one damn thing about me nor how I live my own good life here on the County Island. A horse’s life is what he makes of it, not what his mane hairs say it is.