In my experience, people like to shoot stuff. Even more so if it flies and they can shoot it out of the sky, or at least the bushes.
It must make ‘em feel proud and happy, like when one of us horses kicks out a fence board because we can. It ain’t good for the fence board nor what gets shot, but it’s good for the one that started it, I reckon.
I offered to let the bucket gal shoot lots of stuff lots of times, but she never took me up on it, and so I hardly ever offer anymore. Still, sometimes we ride past brush that’s so chock full of dove-birds makin prime rustle-noises that I’m obliged to stop dead in my tracks to wait and see if she feels like drawin on ‘em. She never does, though. I don’t think she carries, but a horse could be wrong. Like when we used to round up bad beagle-dogs and chase rabbits, nobody ever shot those, neither. There was a time it confused the bucket gal when I stopped for doves, but I couldn’t of made it more clear. When it finally dawned on her, she patted my neck and told me good boy, but no, and off we rode, with no dead doves tied to my saddle horn at all. I didn’t get it, but I don’t get a lot here. I only wish I could convey to her now how bad I want her to take out the real bad birds we got on the County Island, by any means necessary. Not just for me, but for everyhorse. What I ain’t sure of is how to make a person know it. It took long enough for her to catch on about the doves and even though I laid out the right choice before her just like a whisperin-man would do for a horse, she chose wrong.
We’d been under siege by the buzzy birds for a long while. They ain’t a constant threat. But they’re persistent buggers. Back when us horses first heard and saw the buzzy birds, we thought they was a swarm of bees. That’s the sound they make, like a horse is about to get stung a thousand times over and ought to cut and run. What they look like is a big, black shiny flyin thing, kinda bird-like with about four wing protrusions. Birds or no, they do fly. For the longest time, me, Original Coors and Coors Light had no idea what they was, even after we listened in on the bucket gal and carrot guy rantin about ‘em, dronin on and on in their talk about the things.
The problem is, they fly over us. And over a lot of the County Island horses. And all around some of the people-barns. They’re low and loud and I swear they’re bringin bee swarms with ‘em. They’re scary even to a solid old ranch horse, and loud, and the people say they like to spy on us. I don’t know what spy means but it don’t sound good. Mostly they’re a nuisance to the people and the cause of a whole lot of near spook-wrecks involvin County Island horses.
Here’s how they normally make their appearance to stage an attack, and here’s what I’m ponderin, when I got nothin better to ponder, which seems to be happenin a lot lately.
That is to say, what’s worse and weirder is they ain’t got the ability to fly on their own but they’re completely reined in and made to work devious patterns by people. That’s what to be a drone means, to be controlled completely and made to drone on and on, around and around doin the same thing all the time with no will of your own. I reckon there’s a whole lotta unsuspectin arena horses that’s really drones. Surely they don’t drone around and around like that of a horse’s own volition, especially the good western horses. They’re bein a good solid listenin horse, and then there’s bein a drone. Those arena western horses is drones.
Anyhow, I been attemptin to stop in my tracks when we’re besieged by a drone, to get the bucket gal’s attention to take aim at ‘em. But she thinks now I’m drone-broke ad that’s why I stop, ‘cause she thinks I’m being good. Well, I am bein good, and I am drone-broke, but I also want her to actually break the damned drones.
And I know where their bad drone people come from now, too. They’re from Lisa the Bad Beagle’s ranch, and they don’t care none if they spook a horse nor ruffle the County Island’s people’s feathers nor privacy. I wish I could tell the bucket gal, but it ain’t easy for a horse to tell a person about a bad beagle. Sometimes when Coors Light tries to make a point to me, he starts off by sayin “see also.” And so as regards the Lisa beagle house, see also all the time I went out with the bad beagle hunt club and how little us horses could do to tell the people how they ought to round up the dogs proper. See also, it plumb can’t be done.
Turns out, County Island people got a whole lotta rules around shootin and what and where they can shoot. It was news to me, too. And that’s the only reason I can foresee why nobody’s shot ‘em out of the clear blue sky. They ain’t likely to leave on their own, ‘cause they can’t, bein controlled as they are. And the people ain’t inclined to stop. Seems us horses have got to adapt to survive here or else get driven loco by the bad bee-buzz drone-birds. That means we’re also likely to have a whole lot more loco horses on the County Island. Sucks to be them, sucks more for their people, and it sucks even for me, when I got to be rode around ‘em.