don't traffic much with any horse-building other than what is most efficient.


My horse story.

My stepfather decided he wanted a horse so he bought a black stallion,
complete with black saddle, black boots and black Western hat. We kept the
horse in the garage. The garage was a small garage, nothing anyone today
would call a garage. The property had been built by very small people, a
phenomena that chases me through life. Today our garage would be called a
shed with an overhead door. The shed, at the end of the drive, happened to be
located very close to the water well that we drank out of when it would
decide to give over water, that is.

On weekends my stepfather would ride the horse up and down the street out
front of the house. He rode Western. We could sit in the kitchen and look out
the big picture window and see him. It is a fact.

I should add that the mentally retarded girl that lived nextdoor who was
particularly well developed in certain respects for her age also owned a
horse. In her case she actually had a small barn for her horse, no stinking
garage for her horse, and a pen with an electric fence. Her barn was large
enough that many years later, years after the horses and the stepfather were
gone down the trail and my mother had bought the neighbor's house I lived for
a while quite comfortably in the barn. I could write a story about the barns
that I have lived in and loved, but this is a horse story. I could also write
about the retarded girl being a bit overcharged in some odd manner and her
chasing me around in my basement bedroom with the low ceiling one day... but
that is embarassing and only made worse by the fact that she considerably
outweighed me. Slobbering like that, sort of like Rudy's cows, she later
claimed was something my stepfather taught her. What did I know? She rode
English.

I will degress slightly to tell about my white boxer dog Wolf that liked to
bother the neighbor's horse and one day got his genitals hung up on the
electric fence when it was hot. Poor Wolf was in a fix and could not seem to
get free -- as much as he jumped equaled half as much as he pissed. I'll
never forget. After that we called him Sparky Barker.

If my stepfather's horse had a name I don't remember. Before we thought about
it the animal was gone. Possibly it kicked him or otherwise behaved in an
unfriendly manner. I never once rode it. These fleeting things of my
stepfather were never owned for purely educational purposes. There was always
something else to come along, like the piano that I got stuck with for
lessons or the live steam locomotive that was built of promising words.
During the week I got the chore (mind you, a job you get paid for and a chore
is an obligation) of cleaning out the horse shit and hay in the garage. This
was when I first learned how to not handle lime. I suppose shovel work is
educational and I should be appreciative. It has come in handy for a quick
buck here and there in a pinch. I've never quite felt the same about a horse
since. Kathy wants to raise jack asses. I'm all for it.

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