Bubba was sold today.
Are you kidding, I'm elated!
Bubba, rosy cowlicks, gentle trot, mostly sound horse gets his own stall soon! Pam recommended Denny, and so did the girls, Alex and Sabrina. But they were suspiciously elbowing each other in that sister conspiracy way, which I am privy too. I ask, so what's up with Denny? I was tying him in a quick release hitch in front of the barn. Oh, nothing "the baby sitter" is an awesome horse. Baby sitter? Yeah, he's Fortunado's old horse. Fortunado was mysteriously gone this morning; thus the calm settling dusted atmosphere of the herd. Yeah, where is he? Oh, I think Woodie let him go. I love the passivity of the staff here, because I can just imagine the duffel bag tossed out the trailer, and the bus ticket in his hand. Fortunado had crippled three horses during his employment here. It wasn't that he beat horses, no one would stand for that, he just amped them up into a frenzy then kept slamming on the breaks. The Babysitter? This horse doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, but Fortunado picked at every one of them. Denny is a funny looking horse. As many cowlicks as Bubba has, Denny has the biggest head which is attached a toothpick of a neck. He is very slight compared to the cow wrestler of a Bubba. He also had a permanent sore on the left side of his mouth from the tight snaffle Fortunado used. The sore still oozed a bit so I reached for the Hackmore (Hackmore is a bit-less bridle, which applies pressure to the nose and chin for control instead of the mouth.) There was work, which could be done, but I left it to the others, I was going to brush this horse till I heard the sigh I needed to hear, and watched him "fake chew". Have I mentioned the size of Denny’s head? I told him we had something in common as he held steady while I tightened the cinch and eased into the saddle. His trot was nothing like Bubba’s so all day he, bless his heart, he patiently negotiated our trot. We never got it, but he amazed me all day. He never forgot it was I on his back and not Fortunado.
I’ve got the tip part down pat. The people mount and ride around in the arena for a moment, I shine on as "the girl-wrangler." I’ve got the whole bit down.
I’m from Colorado.
Yeea, grew up on horses, and skiing of course. (nods. They love that shit, where’s my Stetson.)
Blah blah chat chat, every tip and dollar I make at this job I save to buy my own horse. This eats the folks up, oh how cute. But when I say it I tend to look at the withers of my horse, because it’s really him isn’t it. A five-dollar tip, for a bit of his hide.
But let me make one thing clear for sure, since this is probably what I’ll be writing about on the weekends, since it is a Saturday night and I’m too tired to actually go out. These horses are treated really well. I shudder to think what the Half Moon bay Stable conditions are like, because I hear it’s bad. This herd is fat, social, shod, and managed, but a lot of them have been doing this for 7 to 10 years everyday, and that is fucking boring. I was thinking about it today while scaling down a very narrow path, just before the beach. The eroded steep valley of ice grass on either side. These animals are prey in the animal kingdom. Pet owners aren’t used to prey pets; we’re used to predator pets. Dogs, cats, even most fish. Predator animals relate to territory, they are quite happy in their space. Witness #1, your cat. OUTSIDE your apartment. Territory equals predator. Now look at prey animals. They forage for food due to climate conditions. Graze graze graze. They do not remain on a single path for long periods of time. Except to, find the way. Most of these horses see glass walls at the two rocks on the beach. Systematically they about face and trot home. In fact it upsets them to be removed from this routine. Their habitual tendencies are somewhat of a mystery to me. Honestly I am not sure what Denny is trying to tell me sometimes. His head bobbing, is a manic lunge to trot, it is the sway of a bound elephant at the circus, or the pace of a leopard behind bars. If I can ease him to stop, it is as random as cooling a junkie, but it takes more energy than force. Suddenly I am trying to save the world by calming this gelding.
My Junkie Denny deposits me at the end of the day at the top of the hill, quite safely, and I return the thanks in a token walk to the pasture, and brush out the saddle marks.
My Junkie Denny. I say that, but did I mention? I could hear him speak today and he was teaching me to ride between his own fits of Fortunado.

Later. Woodie took me out to dinner with another Wrangler. I haven’t talked about her yet, she just started, and so typically, I forgot her name. She’s been around horses all her life, breaks them, know composition, breed yadda yadda, and she kicked my little pickle while he was nervously being shod. We don’t like her right now, because…
Why.
anything can happen in Fargo,
anything can happen in Fargo.
Anything can happen in Fargo,
but it proba-bly won’t.
Now the First kind of person.
Is the worst kind of person.
The first kind of person,
kicks.
His.
Dog.
(Replace with horse and we have a revised edition of the Fargo song, sung by many a drunk ECHTer, at Red Rocks, Colorado, a story, of which, if you are interested, may purchase at occums library for the low low price of $9.99.)
While at dinner Woodie tells me about Uncle Sancho. Do you know him? This is a brilliant tid-bit of Mexicana. In Mexico, a lot of men go away to America to make money then send it to their wives and family back in Mexico. The men are gone for a very long period of time, and what each spouse does with his/her time apart is, well, their own business. The man, Sancho, is the one who stays behind my darlings. He keeps the wives company. The husbands know of Sancho, in fact Manuel mentioned to Woodie the other day that Sancho needed a new pair of boots, which meant he was wiring his wife some money. I love this, and I am eating Wonton soup almost as fast as Woodie’s stories