I have shared the story before about how my nephew Daniel came to have a horse named Fido. I wonder if my own horse had a name? If so, I don’t remember it.
When the family was together recently, David told Debby if he won Publisher’s Clearing House, he was going to buy them a horse farm. As they talked excitedly about their fantasy fields of green, I was all, “HELLO! I’m sitting here, too.” They both turned blank expressions my way, and Debby said, “You don’t even like horses.”
“But I want to be there, too!” I said. “I can cook. Let me run the chuck wagon.”
Apparently this was acceptable, and now I have to answer to names like Hop Sing and Wishbone.
It’s for the best. I have two humiliating horse stories in my past. One was the horse who just went his own way and did his own thing when Lynne and I went horseback riding that time my parents took us to Callaway Gardens. Because of that experience, a few years later on a first date with a really adorable guy, I was leery of his suggestion that we go to his sister’s and ride horses.
“I don’t really–I mean, one time–horses don’t like me,” I fumbled through an explanation.
“We’ll give you the gentlest, best-behaved horse there,” he promised.
Right. That freaking horse turned into a wild bronco. I’m not sure how I made it back in one piece.
See? It’s a good thing I can cook.
I really don’t understand why they won’t let you ride horses on their horse farm. You’re a natural:)
Oh, they’d probably LET me. For comic relief.
horses. no thank you. My riding experiences are not much better than yours.
Hey. we are Texans. Maybe we should learn to ride.
nah.
Whoa, there. Settle down. <----That lingo: as close as I want to be to a horse.
Loved Horses … had them for a time Apaloosas – my favorite was Ladigo, such a gorgeous horse. It seems to me that perhaps you are skilled with a different kind of horse, one that requires springs.
I’m also good with metaphorical horses, like beating a dead horse, leading a horse to water, getting on a high horse, closing the barn door after the horse has escaped, identifying a horse of another color, holding my horses, getting my info straight from the horse’s mouth (thought not looking in its mouth in case it’s a gift horse), putting the horse and the cart in the correct order…
Or maybe I’m just horsing around.
Look Hop Sing, you need to learn your place is behind the horses, riding in the chuck wagon. Or in the kitchen fixing us one of your famous meals. Leave the horse riding to me and the horse care to the “hand”!
Always a Hop Sing, never an equestrian.
I didn’t have a rocking horse. I was deprived.
You were! You should take that up with your parents next time you visit. Maybe it’s not too late. (Oh, it makes me laugh to think of you telling your mother this.)