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Author Archives: Whiskey Ranch-Horse

About Whiskey Ranch-Horse

I'm a hard(ly)-workin', hard-restin', hard-nappin', honest-as-the-day-is-long, bombproof, bucket-lovin', mostly retired palomino ranch horse from the heart of the American Southwest, now livin' the pet pleasure horse dream on the County Island. Oh, and I'm a horse, in case maybe you need it spelled out for ya. Name's Whiskey. It's a pleasure to meet y'all! Why don't you sit down for a spell and read some of my stories?

January 17 Is Do Somethin’ Nice for a Horse Day

…and also January 17th is my own 30th birthday.

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So, listen up and kindly put your ears forward, amigos of the County Island. This here’s important stuff.

Y’all can help me celebrate (much as a horse cares to celebrate made-up people-things) my own 30th birthday by goin’ forth and doin’ somethin’ nice for a horse, on my own birthday.

It can be your own horse or not, don’t really matter. It can even be for a mule or a donkey. Cattle, too, I suppose. Also maybe some dogs. The main point is the doin a nice thing point.

Most nice things come shaped like food or treats, but the nice thing can be whatever you think a horse might enjoy either direct-like or indirect as a nice thing to be done for it.

Then maybe make a picture of the nicety and tell me about it over at my Facebook Ranch, thusly, so we can all celebrate some nice things for horses as a proper herd for my 30th birthday. Or ya can show me right here. Suppose it really don’t matter none.

Y’all can follow this here trail map to my Facebook Ranch.

I’ll look forward to seein’ what y’all come up with.

 

 

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Posted by on January 15, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

And Also, Happy Anniversary to Us All

Looks like all y’all done helped earn me what’s called a participation award from the WordPress Ranch.

Which ain’t worth a damn thing, to tell the truth.

But thanks all the same to all my good amigos for stickin with me for eight entire people-years here — some of the most incredible, strange, happy, confusin and downright fun years of my own horse-life.

And that’s all the mush you’re likely to get outta me. Now, git. Ain’t ya got someplace better to be? Like maybe feedin your own good horses?

Also, a horse can’t fly. And what kinda nonsense-word is bloggin? Story-tellin? That I can do.

acheievement anniversay blog photo

 
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Posted by on January 8, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

Blanket Statement

Old dogs are entirely incapable of learnin new tricks. Everyone that’s ever met a dog knows it’s true, even if ya think ya got the best and smartest dog there is. Ya don’t.

Old dogs didn’t wear blankets back at the ranch. Nothin did. We all lived naked but for our proper warm and fluffy haircoats, as proper ranch horses and dogs and critters do. And we liked it like that. On the County Island, though, old dogs sometimes do wear blankets, but that’s alright ‘cause they got old bones and they was never tough dogs to begin with, havin been whelped on the County Island. And prancey, sheep-sheared horses on the County Island that ain’t got enough hair often wear blankets. Sometimes trees and flower-bushes wear blankets, too. County Island plants that’s been planted instead of growin where they are is real weak plants that curl up and die if they get frost-bit. The first time I spied a blanketed bush, I nearly dropped to my knees. It might’ve appeared to spook me, but I was laughin so hard I could hardly stay standin up.

Recently, I learned a real strange new trick.

The bucket gal set a heavy saddle blanket upon my back, one cold day. There’s nothin strange about a saddle blanket if ya been sacked out properly. What was strange was when she patted my fine thick fur like maybe there might be a problem she was tryin to prepare me for, which alerted me to wake up and pay attention.

And then she unrolled the saddle blanket, to the front, and then to the back. It covered up my withers and my shoulders, and it wrapped all around my behind and over my tail. It came with a front cinch and a back cinch attached, and she did those up under my belly. It also had like a breastplate part, which was all saddle blanket attached with some buckles.

I let out a li’l nicker despite myself, to let her know the saddle blanket was way too big for me. But nice. And warm, but in a real oversize kind of way. Maybe she ought to fetch me a smaller one that fit.

And then she did not saddle me at all.

She stood back, and looked at me, from this side, and then from that side, and then from my front and my back. She seemed satisfied. She undid my halter and told me I was free to move about the cabin, which is a nonsense thing she says to me, Original Coors and Coors Light all the time.

But I could not move about the cabin, on account of I was wrapped tight in my oversize saddle blanket like a bonafide horse burrito.
She waved her arms and clucked me away, so I took a step. It was funny. I took another funny step. She had the audacity to laugh at my funny steps. And then she haltered me back up and told me she aimed to teach me how to walk in my big saddle blanket. I caught on real quick.

Once I caught sight of my own ground-shadow in the cold evenin air, I realized I’d done been trussed in a blanket! I expected the Coors brothers to laugh, ‘cause that’s what I woulda done, but they both complimented me on my attire. Coors Light claimed I was gonna love how it felt later that night.

And, I did love it. It kept me toasty even when the frost formed on my nostrils. I figured out how to lay down in it, and roll in it, and get back up to kick up my heels in it.

What’s dogged me ever since is wonderin why I didn’t learn to wear one sooner. I have always growed a good haircoat in all my 30 or somethin years. And I was a good and self-sufficient ranch horse as is the way it’s always been.

It ain’t what color blanket ya wear that matters, or whether ya wear a blanket at all, it’s what’s the horse underneath the blanket does. If you’re another horse readin this, though, your blanket still likely makes ya look like a doggone fool. Try not to act the part.

Blanket Statement photo

Bein a horse burrito ain’t nearly as bad as it sounds.

 
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Posted by on January 7, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

Feelin’ Chill

Howdy, amigos! I’m busy bein’ a real horse, and also a mostly retired pet horse. It’s all good on the County Island.

I thought I’d take a lil time to tell ya if you’re at a real cold ranch right now, well…

I’m feelin too hot. It’s on account of my haircoat. It’s some real good hair, too. All this sunshine ain’t always easy to deal with.

But ya know what? A couple people-days from now maybe I’ll be too cold, like you are.

The point is, it all works out, kinda like when a horse may be made to balance his hooves on a contraption called a people-made teeter-totter for no reason a horse can perceive.

Sometimes we teeter, and sometimes we totter. So if it’s cold where ya are, don’t worry none. Soon you’ll be too hot, like me.

That’s called balance and it’s a good thing for horses and people alike to learn about. No matter if it seems dumb.

Thanks to all of y’all for balancin here with me on this strange teeter-totter called the County Island. Enjoy your people-year thing. And don’t set off no big boomy things nor sparky crackly things around us. We hate those.

Best horse regards,

Whiskey

 
4 Comments

Posted by on December 31, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

What in — ?

I ain’t got the words today to tell about this.

What In The Blog Photo

All I got to say is, what in —?

Oh, I’ll likely find some words….

But not today.

 
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Posted by on November 17, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

Pack Cows

Pack Cows blog photo 1

It’s said they came to the County Island in the dead of night. To hear the spookiest horses tell it, they came in the middle of a blindin beam of light, a deep rumble of doom, and a rattle they felt deep within their own bones, but I suppose it coulda been the high beams and diesel of a proper ranch-truck and `the rattle of a proper stock trailer, though there ain’t one proper thing about ‘em. And callin ‘em stock might be a stretch.

It’s the time of year again when a crisp, cool wind whistles between a whole lotta horses’ ears and up their tails, trottin what they got for brains around in tight circles in a tizzy of terrifyin thoughts inside their own heads. Even a good horse like me’s got to be careful not to let his imagination stray too far from the herd. Keep your head and your hooves collected.

But there’s no denyin they’re here, whatever they are.

I smelled ‘em once, from the proper side of the wall behind which they’re penned, but I didn’t see ‘em on account of they got a tall wall and I ain’t got tall legs. From the smell, they were hay-burners like us horses, only more dank and more cowwy. But they didn’t smell entirely like a cow. They sounded like they was millin too, on hooves. I didn’t hear no mooin nor bawlin, though. The only thing they could possibly be, I reckoned, was dank, more foul-smellin cattle. And that ain’t nothin to fear. Just hold yer breath around ‘em if ya got to work ‘em. So I didn’t give ‘em another thought. And I didn’t even bother tellin Coors and Coors Light about ‘em, ‘cause why get ‘em riled up over smelly cows?

One day, a real good horse came back from a pointless pleasure ride with his eyes bugged clean out of his head. He was tall, too, taller than me, which ain’t hard to be. So he saw ‘em over the wall, so he said, as he disregarded his rider and stopped at our corral-gate. And his reputation was solid enough I even believed him, a little.

They was “pack cattle,” he claimed, on account of their person told his person somethin like “all-pack-a” lot of … somethin with ‘em. He understood they was meant to pack wool, but we ain’t got sheep on the County Island. Then he supposed maybe they could pack hides as easy as wool, and most of the hides around here reside upon us horses. Thus, it seemed real clear to him we was all set to be skinned soon, and packed away by the new, dank and foul pack cattle. You can see how that got him worked up.

What’d they look like? I inquired. Was they cows?

Jiggin in place, and with the froth beginning to drop from the bit in his mouth from frettin, he said he didn’t get a real clear look, but they was spindly and underfed. With real tall necks and no proper cow tails to speak of, and they was all standin on the alert on their tall stick legs, and starin back at him like he was the devil, not them. Or maybe they’d seen the devil behind him. That’s when he turned to bolt, he said, only his rider caught wind of it by way of her spurs and reins before he could run home to beat the devil.

Those was not no cows, he snorted, not even them fancy-breed cows. I pretended to know what fancy-breed cows is. I only know the normal kind.

How many are they? I asked.

Too many to count, he champed on his bit some more.

I had more questions, but his rider was set on beatin the dark back home, never mind the devil, so off they went. Plus people get nervous when us horses spend too much time conversin, like they know no good comes of it much.

Well now, cows ain’t devils.

People don’t wear horse hide, nor pack it anywhere.

Do they?

If they do, surely it ain’t enough horse hide to warrant particular pack cattle for that sole purpose? And at least they’re polite enough not to wear it around actual horses that still got their hides attached. Unlike how they wear cow around cow. But that’s cow, not horse.

It was all crazy horse-talk. The cool wind whistled around my own ears. I shook my head to clear it out.

But the horse that said it wasn’t crazy, was he? He’d never been crazy before. Did the pack cattle drive him loco? If he went loco, could I?

I still ain’t never seen an all-pack-a cow, and I never hope to see one, but I’ll be the bravest ol’ ranch horse I can be if I ever do. They can’t be worse than javelinas. 

And his description made no sense at all. Sounds like he was mixin up a sheep, with a cow, with a deer, all in one critter. I hope this is one of those many times when another horse told me somethin pointless that I thusly retold, which ends up bein entirely pointless and not worth repeatin again.

But, this here’s the County Island, so a horse never knows.

Pack Cows blog photo

 
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Posted by on November 5, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

Attack of the Drones

Attack of the Drones blog photo

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.

 
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Posted by on September 24, 2017 in Uncategorized