Still thinking of yesterday's horseback riding. I was on "Woodrow," (someone likes Lonesome Dove at the stables?), a quarter-horse /Percheron cross with a steady, gentle and yet energetic demeanor and a beautiful black and silver coat.
Very responsive on the reins, the knee squeezes.
Halfway through the ride he suddenly stopped, wouldn't budge. Then I heard the cascade, and the "oooooh!" of the kid riding behind me.
The drover, with his slouch hat and Texas drawl, said "It's OK, sir. They ken walk 'n poop at the same time, but not pee 'n walk."
I remarked that was true for horses, perhaps, but I've witnessed humans do both. Albeit with dire effects on undergarments and pants.
I was given an El Paso groan.
Another quarter mile or so, Woodrow unleashed a mighty baritone blast of 20-25 seconds duration, eliciting not one but several "ooohs!" and gags from the riders behind. And a quarter mile later, out came the fertilizer, green and glistening in the morning sun. That drew more exclamations from the rearward portions of the trail.
"Good boy, Woodrow!" I murmured, stroking his neck.
This horse and I were soulmates.
Or so I thought. When the drover and my wife, Barb, got a bit ahead, Woodrow decided to break into a brisk trot to close the gap. I was . . . unprepared.
Things were getting whapped and slapped that should not be so treated. The stars were out, and it was mid-morning. I had a burning in my bosom, as my Mormon friends would testify, but the burning was about a foot and a half lower.
"Whooo-aaaHHhhhh," I croaked, weakly easing back the reins and taking a few deep, if ragged breaths.
No doubt about it. A gelding's revenge.
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P.S. So, I'm told when the horse gets to a trot, I'm supposed to stand up in the stirrups. Or, adjust the stirrups accordingly.
